Reel Around the Sun
by hannah.jpg
Summary: In the heat of her hands, he thought, "This is the fire that mocks the sun. This place will warm me, feed me, and care for me. I will hold onto this pulse above all other rhythms. The world will come and go in the tide of the day but here is my future in her palm."
1. 01: Firedance

_We sail into the sun, our hope on the horizon. It seems we've arrived at an everlasting journey: a hungering and yearning rushes through our lives._

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**August 3019 TA**

_Éomer had never been so hot in his life_. Not in Minas Tirith during the summer, or the small cities that flourished in sight of the sea during the seasons where even the nights were hot and sticky and markets opened at dusk. Nor even on yearly campaigns in the Mark, where he could rarely take off his full armor and mail for the threat of orcs or Dunlendings.

The sun beat down on his back, and it burned his skin even through the handkerchief he had tied around his head to hang down his neck at the example of Aragorn and Imrahil. He kept his eyes closed, for the reflection of the sun off of sand beneath Firefoot's hooves blinded him. He wanted to weep for the pure misery of it all, for his tears would be disguised in the tracks of sweat that dripped from his head and down his body. The light cotton tunic and loose fitting breeches had helped him none, and as soon as the sun was halfway in the sky, he had withdrawn in his wretchedness. And that had been hours ago. He wished whole-heartedly that he had opted out of this endeavor. Imrahil had written for his company for the 'adventure' of it, not for the danger posed to Gondor. At least, Aragorn had assured them that there was no longer any threat from most of the Haradrim tribes. His assent has been easy enough to give, a favor for his friend, within the cool walls of Meduseld in the early spring that only hinted at the warm season to come. _Work out a trade agreement with the desert tribes_, Imrahil had suggested_. See new landscapes, try new foods. Meet my daughter, married long since to a Haradrim lord. Share more stories and jokes with Amrothos._ Ha!

Éomer pulled his water-skin from his saddle and drank deeply, wishing he could stop to share with Firefoot. The poor horse was bearing the heat much better than he himself. He had been the recipient of many hoots and jibes when he had tried to dismount for lunch, for the scorching sand had burned his feet, even with his shoes. The moment his feet had touched ground, he had yelped and pulled himself halfway back into the saddle quick as a wink, looking very undignified with his legs hanging.

"Think of the stories you will have to tell Éowyn and your marshals in Edoras," Imrahil had said, meaning well.

"I have had enough adventures for my lifetime," he grumbled to himself now. "I have naught to gain from this. If I had known this ruddy expedition would be too tiresome to enjoy the time with my friends, I would have declined."

"Come now, Éomer," he heard a jubilant voice beside him, and he looked to see Erchirion falling in. "One might think you are not enjoying yourself."

"I am not," Éomer snapped. "Take your jokes elsewhere."

"You should restore your good humor before we arrive," Erchirion said. "My sister will find no joy in playing hostess to one so ill-tempered."

"Her hostess skills had best be unmatched, for if there is no cool water for a bath and lovely ladies to rub salve on my burned skin, I am turning straight for home."

Erchirion laughed. "I only came to tell you the village is in sight, anyhow."

Éomer pulled his gaze higher, and squinted at the horizon. He could see several tents as well, close enough that they had no doubt been in sight for an hour or more. Erichirion rode on ahead to speak to his father, and Éomer was left to brood alone. _If the village was any further, it would take more than a cool bath to satisfy me,_ he thought.

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There were crudely constructed pens that ushered the way into the makeshift village. Éomer was not familiar with Haradrim husbandry, but the flocks of sheep and goats seemed as thin as the ones back in the Mark. A few scrawny children were tending the animals, and gazed upon the company of northern men with great wonder.

A noble and impressive first impression _he_ was.

The sun was finally descending, only an hour or so from disappearing completely. The light was now a vibrant orange, giving everything a golden glow. It did not help with the heat. He rubbed the back of his neck with the handkerchief for the hundredth time, and it did not give any relief, for the hundredth time.

The horses in front of him had stopped, but nudging Firefoot, he easily continued his way through to the front line, stopping next to Amrothos. He looked across at his companions, and saw that none were speaking, only staring straight ahead in solemnity, surprise, and anger. He turned to see what is was holding their attention so religiously.

Directly in the center of the circle of tents, there stood a single wooden pole, three hand-spans wide and probably three meters tall. To the pole, a naked woman was secured, her arms wrapped around her back and tied together with cruel rope. Her long, dark hair hung in front of her face and obstructed most of the view of her body, but even so, there was no question of her nudity. She was filthy and bruised, and very thin. She might have been burnt by the sun as well, or incredibly tan. Éomer could not tell, but continued to look on in the dreadful silence. He then noticed that the company was now tense and taut as a bowstring.

"Lothíriel…?" Imrahil's voice was a low inhale. The woman lifted her head, hair falling away from her face, and Éomer saw the features of his friends from Dol Amroth on it. Straight nose, large grey eyes, and a pronounced jawline. The woman only stared at Imrahil, eyes narrowing in recognition.

The prince jumped from his horse and ran to her side, quickly pulling a knife from his side to hack at her bindings. Amrothos was shaking beside Éomer, in greater fury than he had seen at the Black Gate. Erchirion had dismounted as well, and stepped forward a bit before stopping, his hands clenched in tight fists. Éomer felt righteous anger burning in him as well. For a high-bred lady to be treated thus was a crime in itself, made worse by her relation to his greatest friends.

The ropes fell to the ground, and Imrahil stood and held his hands to his daughter to help her stand. She did not take them, raising herself on visibly shaking legs, flipping her hair behind her. Her back was straight, chin high, eyes flashing. Armed with no weapons, nor indeed a stitch of clothing, Éomer quaked in his saddle at the sight of this dangerous woman.

"Five months!" she screeched, balling her hands at her sides. "Five months I have waited!"

Imrahil stepped back at the sudden onslaught, looking staggered.

"Five months! Did it truly not cross your brilliant mind, Father, that your _Gondorian_ daughter may not be safe among the _Haradrim_ after huge numbers of the _Haradrim_ do not come back from a war with _Gondor_!"

Amrothos was on the ground now as well, and made a move to approach the scene, but the continued screaming kept him from advancing.

"And even then! Why was I left here during the war? Should my stay have been pleasant during that time? Did you truly think that Barul would not be summoned to fight for the Haradrim once open war was declared? That I would be safe among _your_ enemies?"

Imrahil stepped forward, against the wailing that carried across the village, and no doubt penetrating every tent. The shepherds could probably hear as well. "Daugher, please…"

"Please nothing!" the woman cried. "I have been tethered to this ruddy pole for eight days. And before then, I had rotten meat thrown at me if I stuck my head out of my home! What, in the name of the Valar, made you think that I was welcome here?" She stood tall, nearly as tall as Imrahil, her nostrils flaring. Éomer was surprised there no spits of flame coming from her mouth. Her brothers and father had spoken of her so affectionately. Blinded by familial love, he thought. For there is little pleasant about this creature. Still, he admired her fury. She was so very elegant, nakedness and all.

Her wrath abated now that she had spoken her immediate complaints, Erchirion had crept behind her and threw a cloak over her shoulders. She made no move to cover herself. Éomer's eyes were dragged down by the sight of her breasts. Full, and made perkier by her posture. He fought to keep a smile from forming. Delectable though her body may be, as his friends' sister she was forbidden territory.

"Could we continue this inside?" he heard Imrahil ask gently. He had stepped close to his daughter to pull the cloak across her body.

"Inside!" Lothíriel's voice rose again to a piercing shriek. Éomer's ears rang. "I have been banished from my home! By Barul's first wife – if you remember that he has such. She burned my clothing and executed my horse!"

Executed a horse! Éomer now matched Lothíriel's brothers for madness.

The woman seemed to calm herself, taking a moment to rake her eyes over the company of guards, packhorses, and royalty that stood stock still at the entrance to the village. Her eyes did not linger on Éomer, strangely to his regret.

"I am returning to the land of my home," she said in a more level voice. "We will leave tonight." She strode from the scene, a serene figure in the dusk, and after she disappeared out of sight he heard her screeching again, this time directed at another person, and in a language unknown to him. Imrahil and his sons now whispered to each other, heads close together. Lothíriel appeared a moment later, dragging a massive cart behind her with her bare hands. Éomer decided that her anger was giving her greater strength, for no woman was strong enough to pull such a heavy object.

"We are taking this. Get a horse," she ordered, to no one in particular. Aragorn nodded at a couple of his guards, and they immediately got to work. "Two more," Lothíriel said, looking expectant. Once these men were produced as well, she showed them to a tent. "Take every third barrel," she told them. "Load them in the cart. Quickly now!"

Éomer exchanged glances with Aragorn. He cared for Imrahil deeply, but their task in this journey seemed now to be to contain a hurricane. This woman was so bloody bossy! But she was not done with her raging yet. She stalked towards the largest tent, throwing the flaps open with no ceremony and seeming to steel herself and breathe deeply before entering and continuing her shrieks.

Her voice would be hoarse in the morning, of this Éomer was sure, as would the voice of the woman that was answering Lothíriel's shouts with her own. Soon she exited, clutching a wooden box in her hands. She stopped for a moment to tell the guards loading the cart to fetch the two oak trunks from the large tent, and then walked straight up to Imrahil.

"I am ready," she said. "Please, no more delay. They can stay to finish loading," she added, gesturing towards the guards.

"Very well," Imrahil said. "If you will consent to dress quickly, and promise to explain further as we ride."

"I swear it," Lothíriel promised with venom. That would not be a pleasant telling, Éomer decided. Best to keep out of the way of his friends from Dol Amroth. At least they would be returning to less blistering weather sooner than expected.

The lady did not seek privacy to dress herself, stepping into a pair of Erchirion's trousers in front of the company. Most of the lads were looking away, but in the dim light, Éomer felt that his appraisal would go unnoticed. A spare horse was brought forward for her but as she was starting to mount, the flaps to another tent were thrown open and a woman came running out, throwing herself at Lothíriel's feet, howling laments in the language of the Haradrim. Lothíriel answered sharply, and then turned to her father.

"You did not, by chance, bring a maid servant?" she said.

"I did not," Imrahil answered. "This situation is...extremely unexpected, daughter."

"Very well. Maida will come," she turned to the woman at her feet and relayed the news. The Haradrim woman began to cry, kissing the hem of Lothíriel's cloak. So they had to wait for this woman to gather her belongings, which consisted of a young boy-child and a small sack. Éomer's heart moved with pity for the woman, who was undoubtedly a war widow. The situation was the same across Middle-earth. Surely this woman had no hand in the mistreatment of Imrahil's daughter, for she seemed to worship the princess.

The sun was fully gone by the time the company turned their horses back north and set off. They only went a mile before stopping to make camp for the night. Éomer made sure to set an extra pair of guards, for there was danger of vengeance from the town they had just left. Though would they attack to retrieve a princess they had bound and abused? He was not sure.

Éomer's squire pitched his tent that night three down from the princess's, but the weeping of her handmaid still entered his dreaming.

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Dawn broke early, and Éomer rubbed his eyes, groaning as he noticed the sweat already beginning to appear on his forehead. Ten days of travel, and they would be back in Minas Tirith. He wondered briefly as he dressed, if Mithrandir's famed eagles would consent to bearing him north, even north enough to home. The thought of cool winds only deepened his misery. He tugged at his trousers, which resisted him for the stickiness of his skin. Under his breath, he cursed the sun, the heat, the desert, the sand...

His friends were already eating a breakfast of biscuits and dried fruit when Éomer departed his tent. Accepting his portion from a guard, he stood beside Aragorn. The sand was far too hot to sit on, and trees for seating were completely absent from the landscape. The dying fire was allowed to sputter out, for that much he was grateful - the added heat would be most unwelcome. The noise of breaking camp swam around them, filling the air with familiar routine. It comforted him.

"What do you make of our new guest?" Aragorn addressed him, and Éomer quickly swallowed his mouthful of biscuit.

"I cannot know," he replied. "It is clear she is from a noble lineage, but she is wretched. I believe that if she were in her natural element, she would make a powerful lady, though not in physical fighting," At this he chuckled. "That is more Éowyn's talent. But Lothíriel would be a formidable administrator. If she had taken charge of this war, it might have ended three years earlier."

Aragorn joined him in laughter. "Your assessment is the same as mine, my friend," he said. "If I had known such efficency came from education at Imrahil's home, I might have docked there myself. I hear the weather is pleasant, if one likes salty air."

"Did someone mention salty and my father in the same sentence?" They were approached at that moment by Amrothos, who strode to their company with his usual swag. "I would agree," he continued as if he had not interrupted them. "In Dol Amroth we refer to grouchy old men as salty, because they have spend so much time by the sea. Though my father has spent his years coddled in the palace…"

Aragorn and Éomer shared an amused glance. "How fares your sister?" Aragorn asked, obviously intending to keep the conversation from teasing the prince.

Amrothos grimaced. "I do not know, for she will not see me."

Éomer laughed. "The first lady to have that reaction to your new face!"

Amrothos put a hand to his cheek, where a jagged scar marred his features. At his pained look, Éomer knew he was still sensitive about it, and smirked. This youngest prince had few weakness to exploit in a battle of wits, and so Éomer decided to press his advantage. He opened his mouth to speak, but the attention of all present was drawn to the recently rescued lady, who departed her tent in haste, and it seemed, in anger. Her father followed her out, clearly wanting to have words with her, but she pointedly ignored her father and helped herself to breakfast to the dismay of the guards meant to be serving it.

"Good morning, Lot," Amrothos said loudly. She nodded in their direction, but did not look at him.

"I hope you slept well, my lady," Aragorn said. "We are delighted to have your gracious presence on our trek. Perhaps you have some knowledge of these lands - I am much interested in any folklore or tales of the happenings."

Lothíriel finally looked at them, concealing her surprise quickly behind cool composure. "Of course, my lord King," she said, lowering her head slightly. "I would be happy to satisfy your curiosity in any way I can." Now that her eyes were sweeping the group, her gaze fell upon Éomer, and a look of interest sharpened her features.

"Lothíriel, this is the king of Rohan," Imrahil interjected quickly, trying to place a hand on her arm, which she rebuffed. "He has accompanied us on this venture as our great friend and ally. I apologize for not introducing you last night."

"Charmed," the lady said, giving him no less respect in her actions than Aragorn, though her words were stiffer. Formally, there were no faults in her conduct, but her true feelings showed through well enough. She did not like him, and he wondered as to the cause.

"The pleasure is mine," he replied.

"Please, let us depart in haste," Imrahil said. It was clear that he did not wish to linger in his agitated demeanor, and since the guards and soldiers had made short work of the camp, they were soon on their way.

The pace was slower than the day before, for the carts that the lady had insisted on bringing plodded behind them. Éomer would have risked a gallop in the heat, if it could mean that they arrive under the shade of trees sooner. He half-listened to Lothíriel's tales to Aragorn - legends of the land, peculiarities of the people, and of the great danger of sandstorms. It was not until a question relevant to him did his interest perk.

"What happened to your husband, my lady?" Aragorn asked. Éomer noticed that Imrahil had ridden near to them. He wondered if Imrahil's unhappiness was in part due to his daughter's refusal to confide in him. For she seemed disinclined in look favorably upon her father at the present.

"He was trampled on the Pelennor, by the Rohirric charge," she said, unhesitating. Éomer felt his stomach turn to lead, cold tingles creeping up his spine. He had never been accused of murder before, and now it did not sit pleasantly with him. He felt the acute accusation in the pointed way she refused to look at him, while the others were curiously trying to gauge his reaction. His color rose. "At least that is what I was told," she added. "When it comes to battle, who may know."

"I regret the death of all good men, whatever side they fought with," Éomer said, as a response was clearly expected in the ensuing silence. "I can personally attest that the twisted mechanisms of Sauron and Saruman have lead to the deaths of many misguided innocents."

"Of course," Lothíriel sounded surprised, and her piercing gaze shot to him. "I do not mean to offend, I certainly cannot hold you responsible for your entire nation, commander king or no. And I can hardly fault your actions, for though I have lived among the Haradrim these past years, I have never been aligned with the Dark Lord. His motives and methods were pure evil."

Éomer had not noticed the tension in the air until it was released, now, in a hiss. Had others been concerned for her alliance, as the wife of a Harad lord? He could not have doubted Imrahil's daughter, himself. Her nobility shone through her countenance like blazing light, with her steely eyes and proud chin. There was no deception in her. In that way she was not dissimilar to Éowyn, but this lady made him far more uncomfortable. He adjusted himself awkwardly in his saddle, still aware of her scrutiny.

"What stories do the Haradrim tell of the war?" This question from Erchirion, who was riding directly behind Éomer, who relaxed as the conversation was drawn from him. For the way the lady had looked at him, he had the distinct impression that she had a practiced memory, and that none of his words would be forgotten. Even as the journey continued, he still felt her sharp gaze on him every so often. What could she be thinking?

Best not to worry himself over it. He had enough on his mind as it was. What was the saying that his mother always recited? _Sufficient are the problems of each day to itself._ If the princess was truly someone to concern himself over, he was sure it would occur later. For now, focusing on not getting sick of heatstroke would be enough. _Blasted sun._

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_Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen. _This story would not have come to full fruition if not for Riverdance. Most of the chapter titles are named after the dance or song numbers, and one's reading experience would be vastly improved if one were to listen to the playlist provided in my profile. Hint, hint.__

_**NOTE:** This story is not meant to be canon. It's meant to be fun! I've read many, many (read: all) of the Éomer/Lothíriel stories this site has to offer, and I decided that my own offering would try to take the commonalities in those stories and turn them on their heads. It's been challenging as a writer, but I've loved every minute of it. The events in 'Reel Around the Sun' take place every couple months, excepting a few at the beginning and end that follow consecutive days. As for deviating from dates, let's assume that a) Theoden is already buried in Edoras, and b) Éowyn convinced her dear brother to allow her to live in Minas Tirith leading up to her wedding, as she could not be parted from Faramir. I think that's about it, nearly all gap-fillers one could wish for will be resolved later in the story ;) _

_I only wish for your enjoyment! I will be posting updates every two weeks._

_Cheers! I promise to never leave another author's note again._


	2. 02: Distant Thunder

_Hear my cry in my hungering search for you; taste my breath on the wind. See the sky as it mirrors my colors, __hints and whispers: begin!_

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**September 3019 TA**

_The braziers, lit in the last glows of sunset_, gave off more unwelcome warmth. It was just Éomer's luck that they had brought along an unseasonal heat wave to Minas Tirith with them from the desert. He doubted now that he would ever be cool again. Even with chilled wine in his hand, and leaning out the terrace as far as he could with the hope that a breeze would reach Merethrond, he was despondent. There was dancing in the hall, but the humidity and stink of bodies had sent him in search of fresh air. Not that there was an abundance of that.

He might have enjoyed the dancing more, if there had been a partner desirable enough to him. But having beheld the beauty of the Evenstar, newly wedded to Aragorn, he felt as though his heart would always be his. He despaired for it, wondering if he was doomed to spend the rest of his days alone. Éowyn would not be returning to Meduseld before she married, so her company was forfeit. And there had never been a greater time for it, for with the loss of seemingly all his relations, he dreaded the prospect of his future. Considering the poor fate he had been dealt in that regard, he thanked the Valar for his life with only slight bitterness, for it was what he was given at the very least.

A jingling of jewelry against stone drew Éomer's attention from his dark thoughts to his immediate right. He saw, to his manly satisfaction, a lady's rear protruding. She was leaning out, the architecture obstructing the view of her shoulders and head. He immediately berated himself for his improper thoughts, and even more for he recognized the garment.

Imrahil's daughter had caused quite a stir at dinner, arriving in the dress and jewels of her marital home. Éomer had never seen a Haradrim woman, and now he regretted it. Lothíriel was draped in midnight blue silk, embroidered with silver thread and sparkling with diamonds, but the thick folds that swept the length of the legs and across her shoulders neglected to cover her stomach. Very immodest by the standards in the West, but not so in Harad. Pleasing to Éomer's taste, however. Even the silver bangles that wrapped her ankles were considered scandalous. He approached her, his interest growing.

"It is a beautiful night, I think," she said before he could open his mouth to speak. Her gaze was not drawn from the Pelennor. "A bit cool for my taste, and the stars are different here." She turned, and Éomer found himself dazzled by her smile.

"Yes, my lady," he managed. "The stars differ in the Mark as well, though not quite so much."

"I should like to see the Mark," she said.

"You are welcome to my home, if you wish."

"I shall consider it." Her voice had grown low, and she spoke as if her words were a vow. Éomer's skin tingled for the briefest moment, and he wondered if he had just made a mistake. "You do not belong here," she said, changing the subject abruptly. "No more than I myself. We are the odd ones, I suppose. I believe our acceptance comes only from our friends and family."

"Why do you say that?"

Lothíriel smiled. "We are here, and all others are not. It is regrettable, for I would wager that not many have such tales to tell as you and I. Not a single person has asked me of the famed mûmakil, though I have heard that they wrecked a great amount of damage. But even my brothers have been afraid to broach topics of my recent affairs."

"The losses of my people came largely from those monsters," Éomer said. He did not know why he said it, for he could not blame her for it, and it darkened the mood slightly. He mentally shook himself. "What knowledge have you to share of them?"

"None, for I have never seen one." She began to giggle at her own quip, and he could not help but to join her in laughter. The stars were eye-catching, he decided, but not nearly so much as his sparking companion. With the design of her garment, she might be the night herself. "Would you tell me of the Mark?" she asked, composing her features.

He obliged, setting his wine down to show with his hands of his home that he loved. The freedom of plains, the waves of grass – green in the spring, brown in the autumn. The shimmering snow at Yule. Mountains, sparsely settled but producing fine wools and mushrooms and wild berries aplenty. Few, but beloved rivers that ran ice water from the tops of the mountains. The feel of the abundant breezes on a steady gallop, wildflowers that grew along the foot of Edoras. He was pleased to make her laugh as he explained the pastime of catching fish with bare hands, a feat that if successful, turned a boy into a hero.

Lothíriel was quiet for a moment when he finished. He had not told her all, but the night was wearing on and he did not want to intimidate her with his fondness for the Riddermark. He wondered at his desire to be gentle to her, and not removing his gaze from her face, he vowed to burn it in his memory. "I shall be frank with you," she said, breaking his reverie. "My father does not know as yet, but I have no intention of returning to the city of my childhood. I have had my own home, and ran my own household. I will not submit to the yoke of another woman." Éomer knew she was referring to her eldest brother's wife, who was the mistress of the palace at Dol Amroth. She continued, "Or a man, for that matter. I have riches aplenty, and I am young and find great joy in expending my energy. I do not want to spend my days in the petty nuances of court life. I wish to do something of worth."

"Imrahil does not seem the type to deny you," Éomer said.

"But he will," she contradicted. "For my mistreatment, he will want to protect me from further harm, as all men are wont to do. But what is life if we risk nothing? - for then we gain nothing. I would rather chase the sun than wait for it. I have never felt the need for my life to proceed without my input. That is the surest way to be stuck with an unfavorable lot, if any."

He smiled at her passionate words. "I do not see you as a woman that would allow yourself to be coddled and hidden. You seem to have a hold on your fate, more than most that I know. I believe that you could entrap the sun, if you wished it."

"Then I shall make it so," she said, stiffening her posture. "Thank you for your wise words, I shall remember them. Good evening, my lord." She inclined her head, and was gone from his side before he could fathom her rapid departure.

Éomer decided that it was a fortunate thing that he was leaving Minas Tirith at the end of the week. This woman wrecked his composure. He gave a silent prayer to the twinkling stars that she would find a path away from his home. He worried for the effect she would have on the newly-won peace of the rolling plains of the Riddermark. He downed his now warm wine, and retired for the night.

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His fears were sounded. He was packing his belongings in saddle-bags the night before his departure when Imrahil summoned him. There was no choice but to comply with such an official order. Worries crowded his mind as he walked through the busy corridors. Was he to be lectured? He considered the Prince near a father for the camaraderie they built during the war, but not so much to accept the overbearing consequences of authority.

"So," the Prince said, fingering his wineglass. They were sitting across from one another in Imrahil's study. Éomer felt even more that he was in for a scolding, for the solemnity in his friend's features. He waited for the verdict, which was not long in coming. Imrahil took a deep breath. "Lothíriel informed me that you extended an invitation for her to visit your home."

Éomer exhaled sharply, without relief. "I did. It was a casual invitation. I can only assume she discussed it with you, since you are addressing the fact. I did expect her to take it seriously."

"Discussed? She all but informed me that she was leaving with your men tomorrow morning," Imrahil's distress was revealed, his voice rising in volume and fingers clenching the stem of his glass.

Éomer could only stare in response. "I am unaware of these plans, I assure you."

The prince sighed, and set down the glass, leaning forward to pierce Éomer with his gaze. The color was so close to Lothíriel's that he felt considerably disconcerted. He gulped as Imrahil spoke. "I cannot deny her this, you must understand. She is not under my jurisdiction. She has some wealth, and independence. But she is also beautiful, and has a fiery spirit. It is a dangerous contribution. Surely you have noticed the plight of the widows here in Minas Tirith."

"Plight?" He nearly laughed. "It would seem that some of such ladies see themselves as far privileged for the rewards they reap. At least when the men of my nation crowded the city."

"Even so. But Lothíriel is different. She has always reveled in hard work and the rewards that come from it."

"She has told me that much herself."

Imrahil paused for a moment, and Éomer felt himself quake under the scrutiny. "I ask a favor of you, my friend," the Prince said.

"I shall grant it if at all possible."

"Please look after her while she dwells in your lands. She will despise any meddling, of course, especially if it seems high-handed. But perhaps you might be her friend, so that your concern for her welfare is not so overbearing."

"It will be my pleasure to look after such a noble lady," Éomer said, trying to not sound facetious. He did not think that he succeeded. Imrahil's daughter was too high-minded and self-willed by far. It would not be an easy task, and he doubted it would be enjoyable. Except for the obvious advantages of socializing with a beautiful lady. And she was polite enough to him, or at least she had been during their few conversations. He leaned back in his chair. "I believe there to be a solution. I know of a leaderless hamlet near to Dunharrow. The master was killed on the Pelennor without an heir. The people do not wish to leave, for they love their home, but none of the other lords are willing to take on such a project. I think that your daughter might thrive in such a place. The air is clean, and the people kindly. The only factor that is less than ideal is that the farmland surrounding the area has not healed quite yet. It will, in time, but it will take work to sustain the village properly. She may not live in the comforts that she was born to for some time," Éomer leaned forward. "Might I ask for your thoughts?"

For the first time since they had found Lothíriel tied up and so battered, a small smile lingered on Imrahil's face. "A fine solution. I believe that she will be in accordance, considering her love for adventure." They stood, and clasped arms briefly. "I will talk to her. I expect she will depart with you tomorrow, if she finds the idea acceptable."

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And so, Éomer was the least surprised when Lothíriel arrived at their company, taking her place directly behind him on a cream-colored palfrey. But truthfully, he was still taken aback by her appearance. There were more than a few gaped mouths, and his right-hand man, Elfhelm, audibly huffed in disbelief before rolling his eyes.

She was sitting proudly, in a riding dress made of a color that reminisced that of a faded sunset. A few shades brighter and it would have been painful to the eyes. Her elegant features were nicely set off by the color, so the attention was undoubtedly for her beauty. She lifted her chin, the only sign that she was aware of the stares, and reined her horse to a halt. Nobody moved. "My baggage has been sent to the rear of the line, along with your own," Lothíriel said, loud enough to broke no protest. She looked around for a moment. "We were to leave at dawn, correct?"

"You are correct, my lady," Éomer inclined his head before mounting Firefoot. "We are honored by your presence. If you are in need of anything," he gestured towards his squire. "Féola will assist you." How he wished that he could capture the expression on the young boy's face! It seemed the perfect mixture of awe and terror. Éomer hid a smile before ordering the horns blown to begin the procession. To home, and none too soon! He would not miss this southern heat, though he wondered briefly if he was returning with a significant portion of it in his company.

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Busy with delegating duties and making sure the journey went as smoothly as possible, Éomer saw little of the lady over the next days, though her presence was felt by him almost constantly. His skin seemed to prickle when she was near, and with some skill, he was able to avoid her without seeming rude. He was still feeling irascible from the desert trip, and his peeling skin itched him something awful. His men were staying out of his way, and he felt obliged to give the lady the same advantage, which she did not question. The final day she was to ride with them began only a few miles from her new home, the village Yuldburg. Éomer grimaced for his duty, but rode next to her for those few miles to give her information and advice that she might need in the coming months.

She nodded politely, appearing to listen to his words, but she showed little interest. Éomer felt his annoyance rising. Did this foreign princess really believe that she was capable of bringing a hamlet from the brink of desolation with her southern manners and habits? What could she possibly know of mountains, forests, and winter?

"I have a confession, my lord," Lothíriel said, interrupting his spiel on sources of fresh water. Éomer clenched his teeth in frustration.

"Yes?" The word was clipped.

"My father has taken my dowry," she said, not bringing her eyes from where they focused on the track in front of their horses. "I was exuberant with ideas of bringing wealth to your people and helping them to thrive with naught else but my generosity. But my path will not be so simple," A corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "My father did not want me to come here, as I have already informed you. He thought that by confiscating my money, he could convince me of his own opinion of my fate. All I have are my personal possessions. He even took my late mother's jewels that I was gifted at my wedding." Her tone had turned bitter. "I apologize if I have seem inattentive. I have been mulling the situation over the past days, and was considering solutions even as you were mapping the problems."

So that was the reason for her silence. He felt his anger ebbing, and immediately regretted his short temper. "You have my apologies, my lady," he said. "I should have asked you more of your circumstances before I rambled to you of knowledge that is little use to you, as you already seem well informed."

"You are telling me things of great use," Lothíriel said, meeting his eyes without a trace of guile. "I have studied your land, but that can hardly take precedence over true experience. I should be more responsive to your advice."

"Then we have both made our apologizes, let us come to a truce," he said.

She laughed and agreed, and the trek began a slight uphill slope into the vale. Yuldburg was built at the foot of rising hills that met the great mountains that bordered Gondor. Fields of dead crops, or very few live ones, had already passed them, and the mood of the company had turned sober in the desolation. Orcs had not plundered here, but the hard years of the loss of men and resources were obvious. Most of the food had been given to troops and refugees, and so the villagers here had little to work with for the coming seasons. Éomer already knew it was necessary to send provisions to Yuldburg, but he mentally increased their rations with each step they took.

At the nearing commotion, villagers were leaving their homes to stare curiously. Few knew him, but all bowed as word was passed around of his identity. Most were women and children, dressed in clothes that should have been replaced months before. A few faces looked pale and sunken, but still looked on their king with hope. Not for the first time, Éomer wished his lot had fallen to his more experienced cousin.

The road was built straight through two rows of houses, all with small gardens. At the very end of the village, the master's house was built on the burgeoning slope of the hill. It was a bit larger than the rest of the houses, with the same thatched roof and curtained windows. None of that fancy Gondorian glass here. The party stopped, and Lothíriel hesitated for the smallest moment before dismounting. Éomer followed suit.

"This is wonderful," he heard her say quietly. He had not been meant to hear, but he would have gathered as much anyway, for she touched the doorway to the cottage with obvious tenderness. She turned quickly to him. "You have my promise that I will help these people," she said, her tone hard. "I do hate to see such suffering. I can do this."

Was she trying to convince him, or herself? He did not know. "I am sure you will do your best," he said, patting Firefoot's neck as the stallion began to crop at the overgrown grass that was swarming the house.

"More than my best, I will succeed." Her voice rose slightly in volume and more in rigidity. He balked.

"I did not -" he protested.

She strode away from him, giving Féola quick instructions to take care of her palfrey and to see that her luggage was put in her new home, before she walked straight to the next cottage and knocked loudly on the door. Well, she certainly did not waste any time. Perhaps she would not fail as miserably as Imrahil had suggested, oh so subtly. Why had he such little faith in his daughter, anyways? He had known her the entirety of her life, he should be well aware of her strengths. In any case, Éomer doubted she would need very much supervision from him. She had taken great care of herself during the journey, as a princess raised for such duties, she could probably extend that care to a community with the strong will she had exhibited so often.

"Shall we leave, sire?" Elfhelm had not dismounted, and was fingering his reins with the mildest amount of impatience.

"I believe so," Éomer said, watching the lady disappear into the house at the invitation of the owner, an aged woman with snow-white hair. "There is little else we can do here."

Still, it was with regret they turned towards Edoras. He wanted to be home, truly, but there would be little ease for his spirit there in the near future. How much easier it would be to hide in the woods and let the marshals worry about replenishing crops and increasing the herds of horses and cattle! But he could not run from his responsibilities, as recent as they were, and he took the example of the princess and ran through solutions in his mind on the return journey.

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_Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen._


	3. 03: Love in a Time of Famine

_A/N - I updated the playlist in my profile with some dancing that I think might fit in the Riddermark..._

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_Some love comes unbidden from the sea…_

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**November 3019 TA**

_His éored rode into Dunharrow_ an hour before sunset, having left Edoras after the noon meal. It was still warm enough during the day to ride without a cloak, but frost could be found clinging to tall grasses long after dawn. As the sun descended, a chill hung in the air. Yuldburg was only another two miles, and they made good time. He wondered what he would find in the desolated little hamlet, Lothíriel's domain for the past two months.

Two months, and since his return from Minas Tirith he had worked tirelessly to bring in the harvest that they could. It was enough to last, but not enough to thrive. The offerings from Yuldburg had filtered into Edoras the previous week, all that could be spared was drawn in a single wagon. Éomer worried for the health of the villagers, for if he knew the Gondorian lady at all, she may not have the experience to know how much grain was needed to sustain a Rohirric village of fifty. And he was too irritated for that fact to admit that he worried most for the lady from the south. The snows were likely to arrive within the week, and Lothíriel had confided to him in passing on their journey there that she had never experienced anything other than a mild winter.

And so Éomer was surprised to see the bustle in the town when they rode in. Tables were set and piled with platters and pots of victuals. A floor had been put together in haste, presumably for dancing. A single fiddler and a man with a brass horn were playing a short ditty as the rest of the villagers hurried about, setting more food on the tables and arranging themselves in colorful scarves that he recognized as Harad. Young ladies giggled together in excitement.

A farmer caught sight of Éomer, and turned to shout: "The King is here!" Immediately the crowd turned towards him, individuals bowing quickly with little decorum before returning to their tasks. He dismounted, and gave Firefoot his head. The stallion began to devour what was available around the nearest house. His éored followed suit, wasting no time to begin milling about. The giggles of the young women grew louder, and some of the bolder soldiers approached a lucky few. There were few enough unmarried men, and the king's guard were especially desirable. But Éomer gave this no further thought, for he sought a particular woman.

He walked directly to her cottage, and knocked once before entering. She was not in the great room, and a cry of surprise came from behind a half-open door to his right. "I will be out in a moment, Rowyn. Am I so late already? And what is that noise coming from outside, it sounds as if our numbers have doubled."

"They have," Éomer said, his deep voice betraying the mistaken identity. "It seems your party will not be celebrated alone."

The princess's figure appeared in her doorway, too schooled to show any astonishment, though she could not have known of his presence. "My lord! I did not know you had designs to visit."

"It was a hasty decision," he said, taking in her appearance. It was Rohan wear for this night, sturdy and warm. But he could have hardly expected thin silks in this weather. The only sign of her rank were silver clips that held her braided crown of hair in place. "A messenger would not have arrived sooner."

She smiled. "Then your company must join us for our celebrations. We have been blessed in setting a bountiful store for the winter, and so we rejoice for our hard work."

"Bountiful? There was little to be had here."

Lothíriel lifted her chin. "I can explain to you in greater detail, over the meal. But for now, I fear the feast may be delayed for our late appearance."

He held out his arm, and she placed her fingers lightly on it. He twitched, as it occurred to him that they had not touched before. Though there was little contact, barely enough to be polite, he felt pummeled with the sensation of having her near. He had forgotten the feeling of it in their separation. But now he wondered how he could have forgotten it at all.

Lothíriel sat at the head of one of the long tables, as she commanded the village, and Éomer was delegated to her right. He did not mind being relieved of presiding, for it was a jolly dinner and he preferred to focus on the joking rather than seeing that everyone was fed. There had been an abundance of food prepared, and with everyone partaking more sparingly than they would have ordinarily for such an event, there was enough for the extra riders. Éomer had always appreciated the graciousness of those that had so little.

The lady explained to him proudly while they ate, of how the women and children had been eager to hike high enough to come across several patches of wild mushrooms, which had grown in profusion during the years that the mountains had been unsafe. They had even come across an abandoned farm not far away, which was overgrown with perennial vegetables and herbs. The men had climbed even higher, to hunt small fowl and had even been successful in nabbing seven fat deer.

"Seven!" he nearly shouted in surprise.

Lothíriel smiled wryly at him. "I have come to the conclusion that this part of the mountains held far less danger than was supposed. With the threats keeping everybody from straying too far from home, and without your people taking the goods, the animals flourished. It was an unexpected blessing."

"Indeed. But that does not explain the wine, for I know it has been in short supply," he toasted her with the same.

At this her eyes lowered, and she fingered her shawl, almost in embarrassment. "You must not berate me, my lord. I only did what was necessary. These are my people now, and I hold their happiness in the highest regard."

He eyed her in suspicion. "What is your meaning?"

"I sold both my horse and my silks. Before the hunting became good, I grew overly anxious for the winter. And so, after gifting a few scarves to the ladies here, I sent a man to Aldburg and the Hornburg with the rest. Your noblewomen snatched the goods like a dying man to water. I take it there can be little color in the Mark at times." Her face showed utter humility, but also a defiance as she looked at him. "I hope you will not fault me for selling my possessions to save this village. I love it as I have loved none of my homes so far."

Éomer could only stare. Her clear gaze held no deception or untruth, only the earnest of seeking approval. What could he say to convey the deep gratitude he felt? "My dear lady, you…"

A howl came up the table. "Dancing! Dancing!"

The moment was gone, and benches scraped as everyone stood, excited murmurs passing down the table. He helped the lady to her feet, and was going to ask her for the first dance, but before he could open his mouth, a lad of about thirteen ran up and began to pull her away.

"You promised, Lady Lothíriel!" he said.

"I did indeed, Earig, the first and the ninth," she confirmed, favoring the boy with a gracious smile. "And I would give none other the honor."

Éomer sat back down in confusion as they darted through the crowd together. He had lost his lady to a youth! The couple was the first on the floor, and heavy bootsteps and giggles as nearly everyone else joined them rang in his ears. The musicians struck a lively tune, and they were off. A woman came to clear the table of the dirty ware, but Éomer did not take his eyes off of Lothíriel.

She was at least a half head taller than the tallest man, and easily a full foot than her partner. But she took it in good grace, allowing herself to be swept along even though the clumsy movements. She laughed easily as she and Earig locked hands and stamped underneath the held arms of the other dancers. There had obviously been a substantial amount of effort on her part to learn the Rohirric dances, and to see this particular lady with people that he cared for in a land that he ruled, Éomer found that he loved her for it.

He was completely bewildered at himself. Taken in by a woman bossy enough to run most men from her with tails between their legs...or, well, to run Meduseld as a well-functioning household, he had to admit to himself. Tall enough to frighten the faint of heart away...or tall enough to kiss him. Beautiful enough to stir his attention, and kind enough to hold his heart. Said heart swelled as she leapt high in the air to spare the scrawny lad from lifting her.

"Ale, my lord?" Elfhelm sat by him, and pushed a tankard in front of his face. Éomer did not tear his eyes from the lady. His marshal followed his gaze and snorted. "She is a beauty, my lord, if one can find beauty in a raging cyclone."

"I find beauty in a storm," Éomer said. "I would have her no other way."

"Not even a mite more biddable?" Elfhelm made a fair point. Éomer cared little to have domain over a woman, but it would be nice if her ears were open.

"I shall find out if there is elasticity to her character," He began sipping his ale. "I will have a dance from her." But his chance was not to come. There were still a few steps left in the first song when her next partner, one of his éored – damn that man! – stood behind her to wait for her hand.

"The next one, perhaps, my lord," Elfhelm said with amusement. Éomer gritted his teeth. He began to move more quickly for the next song, but was still beaten – by two! He sat back down heavily in frustration, throwing back more ale.

Luck was not with him. There were no chances for him to sweep her away from her many admirers! Some she danced with twice or more. He fumed, considering the consequences of rudely forcing her into his arms. No, that would not do, not with his princess. She would straighten him out then and there, and that would set him back further. Still, he could not stop from admiring her form, as difficult as it was in the crush of people. With casual attentiveness, she was passed from partner to partner, and Éomer found himself becoming angry at them for treating her as they would another woman. Could they not see how special she was? How her smile shone brighter, her laugh merrier, her gazes more profound and her twirling skirts wider? That every graceful movement her shapely limbs carried betrayed her intelligence and hidden depth? To him she was the superior of all other women, and the joy of such revelation was immediately tempered by the realization that she did not feel so fondly of him. How the highest of hopes could be brought down with so quick a thought!

"You may want to steal her away for the final number at least," Elfhelm chuckled. He had not partaken in any dancing either, far too solemn a man to fraternize with the young ladies, of which there were many, though few had tried to secure his attention.

And he was right to remind Éomer of the final dance, for those during celebrations were fraught with insinuation. In the spring, a kiss was expected between the couple. With some of the looks Lothíriel was receiving, Éomer wondered if she might be the victim of such an attempted kiss, even in autumn. It would be a simple matter for a man to take advantage of her ignorance.

He stood abruptly, knocking over his empty tankard, and made long strides to the edge of the dance floor. He tapped his foot impatiently, for there were still several steps left in this song. The musicians finished with a flourish, and the dancers clapped.

"Final dance, ladies! Choose your partner with care!" the fiddler called. Éomer elbowed his way to the lady, and with a single look from their king, sent the three men that lined up for her next dance slinking away. She only looked at him with raised brows.

"I believe I heard it said that the lady chooses her partner," she said.

"Am I such a fright that you would deny me?" Normally he would not say such things, but the new vulnerability in his heart was making him seek compliment or reassurance. He could see the futility of it, but still could not stop the hope growing inside of him.

"No, I would still choose you," she said. Éomer could not help himself wondering at her implication. But she grinned, and said, "I am tired of towering over these men. I do not feel quite safe being tossed, and my neck is beginning to ache from looking down."

So his height was his only apparent advantage. The music began, and Éomer took her around the waist with one hand and held her own in his other. He was barely taller than her, and in fact decided that her lips were the perfect distance and angle from his. _Hmm, perfect indeed._

"Do you know of the last dances of the night in the Mark, my lady?" he said to retract his thoughts from kissing.

"Is there a significance?" she asked.

"There is."

"I have not been told of such. What is it?"

Her forthright manner made him grin, and so he paid it back in kind. _Damn the consequences!_ He tried not to let his eagerness show in his words. "If a man and woman share a final dance, it can be considered that they are showing their intentions for one another."

Immediately, irritation set hard lines in her features. "I see," she said, slowly. "If that is the case…" She withdrew herself from his grasp and turned on her heel before walking away.

Éomer had only a moment to register the loss of her presence before she disappeared in the crowd. Not wanting to shout for drawing attention, he cut through the dancers as politely as he could, and when he got off the floor, he could not see Lothíriel anywhere. He opened his mouth to call her name, but Elfhelm caught his eye, and shook his head. He moved to stand near enough to his marshal that their words could be private, and asked gruffly, "Well, what is it?"

"Your lady has gone to her home," Elfhelm said. "It seems that you were the one to set her winds a-whirling. What was it you did this time, lad?"

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Éomer had only planned a single night in Yuldburg, and so with the intention of riding out before noon, he sought his lady at her home early the next morn.

The village was sleepy for it being a full hour past dawn, and he attributed it to the late celebration. But surely Lothíriel would be awake. He pounded on her door mercilessly.

"It is Éomer," he barked through the door. "I must have words with you before I depart."

To his immense surprise, the door was immediately flung open, and Lothíriel stood there, looking as if she had been awake and hard at work for quite some time. "I thought you might come," she said, without preamble, staring him straight in the eye and not at all disguising her annoyance. "I did want to send further supplies to Edoras, but the mushrooms we were drying took longer than I expected. I anticipated sending them later in the season. But they are prepared, and you are here, and so you will take our surplus with you." As she finished speaking, she dragged a burlap sack that was stuffed to the brim with pungent dried stems, and shoved them into his arms. He took it automatically, and with his face half covered, had few options besides to wait for further instructions. He could see over the sack, and saw his lady left up two more sacks, and sling them over each of her shoulders.

"My lady, please, you mustn't carry –"

"Oh, mustn't I?" she said in a clipped tone. She set off at a stalking walk towards where his men had made camp, and he followed her. She walked extremely fast for her heavy load, enough to cause offense in a lesser man, and Éomer knew that it was because of him. What a fool he had been!

The sacks were dumped unceremoniously in the general center of the tents, and he deposited his own before the lady spoke to him again.

"We were most honored by your presence for our most humble gathering," she said piously, executing a flawless curtsy, but not lowering her intense gaze from his face. "Your men have enchanted our ladies most successfully. I have arranged for the leftover meat pies to be sent back with you for your journey. I wish you safe travel. Good day, my lord King."

No one would ever doubt her nobility. Her manners were so stiff, and so regal, that he wondered if she hated him. He managed to return pleasant words to her, and she turned and left with a final nod of her head as soon as it was no longer rude to do so.

The other women he had known teased and pretended to give him chase, but he had never cared for those games. This lady was not pretending. She had no taste for games and even less for him.

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Yule approached quickly. It was traditional for the King of the Mark to invite all of his lords to Meduseld for the Yule celebrations. But this year Éomer began to to dread it.

He was miserable. The joy of love, quickly discovered and overwhelming his senses, had been pummeled by reality. How could such a noble and exquisite lady have any sort of affection for a man rough as him? As the weeks progressed, he became inattentive in council meetings. At night, he found himself staring at his reflection in an unpolished mirror that hung above the washstand in his bedchamber, the cool water bringing relief to his hot skin. Water droplets dripped from his nose and beard, and he pondered. What kind of man could Lothíriel love? A man like unto her first husband? A Gondorian, like those of her native land? Increasingly, he felt as if his love were a fever. Ravaging waves of desire and affection rode through him, leaving little energy for his duties. He wanted to pine, to mourn, and to wish fervent prayers upon the merciless Valar. His eyes were the only feature that betrayed his agony, he decided, for it was difficult to temper raw emotion. Such desperation caused him to attempt to put her likeness to parchment, but his attempts to convey her brightness and glory were feeble, and wasted paper piled up in a corner of his chamber.

Éomer had heard not a single word or received any message from her. He was not expecting love letters, surely, but most of the other town masters wrote to him regularly to keep him abreast of harvests, births, deaths, and any other needful thing. He wondered if she refrained from such out of disgust for his manners.

Sending riders to the other lords with verbal invitations for the Yule festivities, he elected instead to send a message to his lady. He penned his words carefully, apologizing for his behavior and expressing hope that she would grace his halls for the holidays. What else could he do? He considered sending a sort of gift with the message, but though a princess, and perhaps because of it, Lothíriel would have very distinct ideas about the usefulness of baubles in a village that was not yet back to normalcy.

He agonized over the closing of his letter. The opening had been easy enough: Lady Lothíriel. To sign King of the Riddermark sounded far too impersonal, and King Éomer far too presumptuous. He did not think that Lothíriel would approve of a simple Éomer, for she did seem to have a high regard for propriety. Though, he thought with a grin, her conceit despite her nakedness the first time he saw her had little enough decorum to it. Any other woman would have tried to hide herself.

He signed it with just his name, still smiling, and sent it off.

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_Raymond E. Feist was quoted at the start of this chapter._


	4. 04: Whisper of a Thrill

_The song that Éomer and Lot dance to in this chapter is Romanian Folk Dances by Bartok. The second part of the chapter where other things happen are quite beautiful when combined with 'The Farm', by Thomas Newman. They are both in the playlist I have in my profile. Definitely worth a listen ;)_

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_Kiss a lover_

_Dance a measure,_

_Find your name_

_And buried treasure..._

_Face your life_

_Its pain, _

_Its pleasure,_

_Leave no path untaken._

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**December 3019 TA**

_Yule celebrations lasted twelve days_, and the guests began to arrive on the first, on which there was to be a feast and dancing to begin the holiday. Éomer did his duties, meandering the great hall to speak to all of his lords, welcoming them and complimenting their ladies. He enjoyed the company of his friends, to be sure, but found himself feeling stilted and false in his actions, for his mind and attention was elsewhere.

His thoughts returned to him when his lady arrived, a gust of wind blowing her into the hall amid a torrent of snowflakes. Many landed on her dark cloak, and were promptly brushed off as she removed her covering. She hid her ruffled manner quite well, drinking the wine offered her in a single draught before treading purposefully into the mess of people and standing as close to the hearth as she could without her dress brushing against the flames. Éomer smiled at that, and approached her after ending his conversation with Erkenbrand. He even sent a short prayer to the Valar that she had forgiven his trespass, and would be disinclined to treat him like the bastard he felt himself to be.

"Has the winter frightened you away yet?" he asked, trying for cheeriness.

"No, it has not," Lothíriel said, rubbing her hands over the heat without taking her eyes from it. "Though the Mark tries her hardest to send me back the south where I am sure she believes I belong, I am staying put."

"Is that so?"

"Certainly. I am not making a run-away trek in this weather, in any case."

He laughed, and saw her eyes twinkle as she looked at him. Was he forgiven, then? It seemed to be so, for she showed nothing but friendliness, and he did not doubt that if she was displeased, she would not conceal it. "The Mark makes up for it in the spring, you may find," he told her.

"I hope so. Then I can return to wearing only one set of undergarments. I feel positively bloated in all of the layers I must wear, else I freeze." How easy it was for her to poke fun at her own oddities! Recognizing this, Éomer knew that this admirable trait was found in few people. He wondered how she came by it. Perhaps her older brothers had a hand. "I must admire your hospitality," she said, pulling him from his thoughts. "I am expert in it, and so I may discern how smoothly things run quite well. Your housekeeper must have such an accumulation of skills and experience."

"She is when I come across her, but I shan't question it, for I have the sense to let her be," Éomer said. "I have no desire to test her nerve by second-guessing what she does! I know the arts of battle, but not of the home."

The lady smiled. "I should think not. I had the unfortunate opportunity to begin keeping the palace at Dol Amroth running from the time that I was twelve years old. Living alone now does have a few advantages, and not being required to see to having sufficient linen for thirty guests at a time is one of them."

"That is young for such a formidable task!" He meant to continue the easy conversation between them, but beholding a sudden influx of sorrow in Lothíriel's countenance made him regret his words at once. But she hastily covered her emotions with a mask of serenity, and replied with no visible hesitation:

"That was my age when my mother died, that is all. It is not so uncommon."

"'Tis not," he said, gravely. "I was of the same age when I lost both of my parents."

"I am sorry," she said.

"And so am I. Was it a raid that took your mother?" Truthfully, Éomer was trying to fill any awkward pauses between them with words. He did not want to her to take a lull as an opportune time to depart.

She looked at him sharply. "No, it was not. She took her own life after the death of my younger brother during childbirth. You must excuse my bluntness, but it bothered me for so long that I simply _had_ to force myself to be pragmatic about it. Living in Harad was wonderful for quitting the trouble, it was there I began to be able to fall asleep with ease once more."

Well, there was the awkward pause he worried for. She seemed composed speaking of the topic, and he hated to hear any silence…and so he continued. "Surely a single death that must have been unwitnessed would not upset your sleep, my lady?"

A small smile, almost sinister in the partial dark, pulled at her lips. Flames reflected in her eyes, which now seemed black, and he was mesmerized. "Suicide it not entirely uncommon in Dol Amroth," she said, her voice so low he had to bend slightly to hear. The mass of other guests disguised her words well, and provided cover enough for the intimacy of their standing so close together. "I am afraid that the young ladies in the city have had the romantic notion for ages that it is far better to throw themselves from the cliffs after a case of rebuff than to ever love another. When I was thirteen, I came across the victim of such mentality as I was walking on the beach. Since that was the same method that my mother found appropriate only a few months earlier, my peace of mind vanished at that moment."

"You have my sympathy," Éomer said, giving in to the natural impulse to place a hand on her shoulder. "I retain such images from battle, but there they are at least expected." She nodded, and before he could open his mouth again, he was approached by his steward, who promptly informed him that he was needed to perform _'some stately function'_, as it was put to him. He took leave of his lady, who looked upon him with a tender smile, and regretted it for the remainder of the day.

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Éomer paid little attention during the Yule dinner. He ate out of habit, but in truth, he was feasting on the sight of his lady, far down the table. She was wearing a blood-red dress stitched with the gold patterns of the Haradrim, with her dark hair drawn up at her neck and woven with a golden ribbon. She was speaking with an ancient member of the king's council and his wife, happily gesturing what were obviously descriptions of her latest homeland, as she caused crumbs of food to scatter with her enthusiastic movements. Her alacrity proved her undisturbed from the dark topics of their earlier conversation. He smiled to himself, trying to disguise it, for Elfhelm, who was sitting next to him, would surely question his reason.

He closed the eating as soon as possible, and announced the dancing to begin after a round of mulled wine, which was toasted to the Great Hunter. Tables were pushed from the center of the hall, and musicians were set up on the king's dias. As was traditional for state occasions, the song of the Riddermark would begin the dancing. There were seven major lords and marshals of the Mark, including the King, and only they and their ladies were to partake in the dance. Often others tried to hide out of the candleglow to attempt the steps, but that had never bothered Éomer, for it was always meant to begin the celebrations with jubilancy and energy anyway.

Himself and two other lords lacked wives, for like him, they had come into their inheritances during the war and remained unmarried. He chose his housekeeper to begin with him, who blushed exceedingly, and to no surprise, the other lords chose the two prettiest unmarried ladies they could find. This included Lothíriel, who accepted the hand of the lord with smiling grace.

In the series of seven dances, each represented an essential member of Rohirric society. Éomer paid little attention to his partners for the first three songs - the king, the hunter, and the crone. His focus was easy to give to another, for his being tall, and Lothíriel nearly matching his height, he simply looked over the heads of the other dancers to watch her as he and the ladies he danced with wove between other couples. Between each song, the musicians paused and allowed time for the men to move down the line before striking into the next. He found the king's song boring and slow, for it was the longest of the group. The hunter's foray was of a faster tempo, and was done with lighter steps that were not to make a sound. Many of the heavier men always found this difficult, and the bursts of laughter when one stumbled over his feet nearly broke the atmosphere. Éomer was appropriately paired with the ancient matron of the West Emnet for the number that represented the old crone. It was a rather sad piece, for the long years without a husband and the pain of grandchildren living far away. The lady chattered at him quietly, remarking politely on the feast and criticizing his lack of heir. She was a perfect match for the song, and he completely ignored her.

He would be lying if he had said he had not particularly arranged himself in the line to be with Lothíriel for the fourth dance. This piece was was of lovers, of the newly wedded, and of the betrothed. The movements were longing and full of barely repressed affection. His stomach flipped as soon as as their fingers touched, and a small smile formed on her face as she met his eyes. "I hope you will not try anything unsavory this time, my lord," she said quietly.

"I did nothing of the sort in that instance to which you are referring," he said, pulling her as close as he dared. "I was merely warning you. I would hate to see your virtue so compromised by an enterprising youth."

Miraculously, she laughed. "If any did, I would not hesitate to make my displeasure known. In any case, I should not have reacted to you so violently. I apologize, and I admit that I should have done so sooner."

Their hands clasped, one pair above their heads and one held across their waists, and they turned in accordance to the music. He found himself mesmerized by her eyes which darkened in the candlelight, and which were smiling unabashedly into his own. Strangely, he felt that he did not need to say anything, or if he did, the moment would be lost. So he relaxed, and enjoyed the touch of his lady's hands on his, the pleasant melody in his ears, and the fairness of her features in his gaze. She was a splendid dancer, confirmed now that he held her in his arms, and he would not have expected anything different. The daughter of his sworn-father and Gondorian prince could hardly be unaccomplished, but he wondered idly if there were any deficiencies in her abilities. When the song ended, Éomer hesitated for a moment, and then adamantly decided _not_ to move down the line.

The pace picked up considerably, despite the the momentary confusion as Éomer did not follow the prescribed traditions and men bumped into each other as they sought a partner. Lothíriel took it in good humor, and laughed as they began to stamp underneath a bridge of the hands of the other dancers. The dance of children - wild and fast. The crowd was growing louder, clapping in time with the music.

There was no rest before the next dance, representing motherhood and increasing in volume. He held Lothíriel around her waist and lifted her from behind, as she kicked a leg high in the air, flaring out her skirt like a fan of fire. Multiple lifts, though the song was short, and the last piece began directly.

For the Riders and warriors, the previous chaos multiplied. The thundering hoofbeats through flat plains were made with even heavier stomping, which seemed like they would take the thatched roof from its perch on the hall. They twirled and turned through the clapping watchers, faster and faster and the music crescendoed. Whoops echoed in his ears, nearly deafening him. Lothíriel's mouth was open in presumed gales of laughter, but he could not hear her.

It was over; a speedy bow from the men and curtsey from the women. Then there was applause for the musicians, but Éomer did not take his eyes from Lothíriel. He did not want to lose her to any other man that night. But he was not to get his wish, for her hand was asked for immediately by Erkenbrand, and without a glance to Éomer's jealous gaze, she left his side. And alas, the rest of the evening was thus, and only half a dance with his lady to retain in his memory. He dulled the ache of seeing her with other men by consuming several cups of mead, danced with no other, and retired to his bed as soon as the festivities ended.

.

.

Éomer couldn't sleep. Instead of making him drowsy, the mead he had drunk alerted his senses and made him jittery. He tossed and turned in his bed for hours before he finally gave into his frustration and left his chambers, in search of food or company – anything, really. He paced the dark corridors at a brisk pace, stopping only briefly in the abandoned kitchens for a snack, a pilfered pumpkin tart. He nibbled at it as he continued his trek, passing through the great Hall in an attempt to walk himself into exhaustion. Expecting it to be empty after the feast, he was considerably surprised to see the very reason for his jumbled thoughts in the very room.

Lothíriel was squatting by the great hearth, stabbing at it with a poker. Éomer stared at her. The dull light from the dying fire lit her face, and she seemed to be, by all accounts, discouraged. And slightly cold – with her opposite arm she rubbed herself as if trying to warm herself even though she wore a cloak. He did not stir until she spoke.

"You might join me, if you wish," her voice echoed thinly. "If it is not too inappropriate."

He moved, and crouched across the hearth so that they were at the same line of vision. "I must confess, I thought I would be the only one awake at this hour," he said.

"I wish I was not awake," she replied. "But the fire went out in my room, and I woke and thought I was on the precipice of death. The children in Yuldburg made fun of me, telling me stories of frozen bodies found in the mountain, seeking to terrify me, and it worked. I am so very paranoid. And this was the only source of heat that I have found."

"Your fire went out?" Éomer was surprised. "But why did you not relight it? The supplies to do so are always kept at hand."

Lothíriel was silent for a moment, not taking her eyes from the crackling wood. "I do not know how," she said in a soft voice. "I went to the kitchen to search out a servant for help, but there were none. I have kept the fire burning diligently in my home these past months, and have not needed to relit it myself."

He smiled at her, for she bore her vulnerabilities very visibly. There was honor in that, he supposed, though not a type he wished for himself. "I will assist you, my lady," he offered.

She met his eyes then, and gave him a smile that warmed him thoroughly. "I would appreciate that very much," she said. "I would like to sleep a bit longer before the day begins, I think."

Éomer stood and held out his hand to help her stand, which she took after brushing her skirts of flecks of ash. She did not touch him longer than needful, and the hope that burned in him for speaking to her disappeared at her reserved manner.

Lothíriel sat on her bed and waited while he coaxed the warm flames into existence. It did not take him more than a few moments, but Éomer took his time to sear the image in his memory. Flashes of white nightgown spilled from the lady's cloak, and she swung her feet back and forth, for they did not meet the floor from the tall bed. Her braided hair hung in a plait over one shoulder, but it was coming loose around her face, which was very becoming. He could smell her, as her sweet scent penetrated the room. He wondered idly how long he could keep it from being cleaned after her departure. He sighed at the thought, and stood and brushed his hands off, revealing the cheery flames to the lady. _His lady. _

"I hope it is to your satisfaction," he said, inclining his head towards her in a formal manner. "You truly only have to ask for your needs to be seen to. If you would like a servant to take care of your fire tomorrow night, I will arrange it." He caught his breath at the expression on her face. She had been gloomy before, but now agony lined her face, and she bit her lip.

"My lord…"

He waited, expectantly.

"I would have one favor to ask," she whispered, and cast her eyes to the floor. "But I am afraid to do so, for it is…audacious and inappropriate to the highest degree. I should be shamed for the very thought."

"You will not be shamed for asking," Éomer said. "Please. I will grant it, if I can."

"I will even soften it by supplicating for my greatest wish as a Yule gift. I am in torment, my lord," she took a deep breath and dragged up her eyes to meet his. "I am lonely. I was once married, and shared body and bed with a man, and now that I live alone my isolation is complete. It wears on my soul. I do wish to overstep any proprieties, but I ask you…only for a kiss, if you will grant it."

A kiss? He would happily grant that! He schooled his eagerness into a mask of calm generosity. "My lady, it would be my pleasure."

Lothíriel stood and moved next to him, her slate eyes boring into his own with an intensity he was unfamiliar with. He stood, entranced, and she leaned forward to brush her lips against his. He could not help himself, after she pulled away, from placing his hands on either side of her face to cease her retreat. "Surely that was not all," he said. "I could not leave you with such...pitiful a kiss."

The corners of her lips rose. "I was hoping you would say something of that ilk, my lord."

Éomer bent his head and kissed her, far more thoroughly this time, and she reacted eagerly. He thought, belatedly, that her skill far surpassed him in this field. She knew exactly how to move her mouth against his to send torrents of heat down his body and into his belly. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her fingers in his hair before moaning deep in her throat. He almost lost control then, for the lady of his choosing to be melting in his arms so willingly, and in a dark bedchamber. _Keep a hold of yourself, man_, he told himself sternly. But he was too late in that thought, for Lothíriel's hands were brushing along the length of his body, and his desire heightened. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist like a vice, not wanting to let her go. She pulled away from his briefly, and he feasted his eyes on her pink lips and flushed cheeks. No, he definitely did not want to let her go.

"I…" she swallowed. "I want…we should not…"

"Which is it?" Éomer asked before nuzzling into her neck, kissing her skin slowly, savoring the taste. "What you want or what we should not do? This is your bedchamber, my sweet, and you shall be the ruler of it."

"Do not say that," Lothíriel said in a low voice. "For I am sure to choose wrongly."

"Then choose, and I shall comply with the opposite of what you command."

She lifted his head gently and held it close to her own. His blood was already pounding, but at the look on her face, his heart began to respond in kind. "I choose for you to leave," she said, smiling.

He returned the smile before she crushed her lips to his once more, her desperation very clear. His resolve crumbled in the onslaught of mighty passion. He clasped one arm around her waist to hold her tightly, and cradled her head in the other before tipping her onto the bed, their bodies never parting. He had to admire her fortitude, he thought to himself before his reason fled, for she lost no breath from his weight upon her.

She moaned softly in her throat as he caressed her, enjoying the feeling of her soft body under his. Indeed, she did not appear reserved in the slightest, moving her limbs without hesitation to connect their bodies all the better. She was grabbing him desperately, and he could have winced at her merciless grip on his shoulders, but his attention was on her lips, her tongue, her hips, her taste...

All at once Lothíriel made a strangled noise, not in the slightest related her noises of pleasure, and she froze under his touch. So it was over, their brief foray into the divine physical pleasures that Éomer was so unfamiliar with. He removed himself from his position with gentleness, and tried to look his lady in the eye, her eyes were cast down, and her cheeks red.

"I am sorry," she said, getting to her feet. "So very sorry. I should not have beseeched you such, and now I fear I have given you a most unfavorable view of my character. Please leave."

Her words embarrassed him as well, and he gave her a short bow before turning to leave. He would have said something to comfort her, but she turned her back to him, her head bowed and buried in her hands. His stomach dropped at the sight of her anguish, but he did her bidding.

Éomer still found that rest escaped him once he laid in his bed once more. He had felt raised up by kissing her, for it seemed her body belonged with his, and their hearts were meant to be one. But now he was so, so low, and he wondered if he could possibly do anything to convince her of his devotion, and for her to return it.

.

.

_Neil Gaiman is responsible for the beautiful poem that started this chapter._

_Also I haven't had the decency yet to thank my beta (I'm blaming it on my failing memory),PI-Valkyrie-exLorien. She has done an amazing job fixing my awful little mistakes and that sort of thing. Basically this story would be C- material without her. She has improved it so much. You go girl ;)_


	5. 05: Slip into Spring

_Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. _

_._

_._

**April 3020 TA**

_Éomer stepped from his tent at dawn_. They had arrived at Yuldburg long after sundown, due to a thunderstorm delaying their journey, and had made camp as quietly as possible. The cottages had already been dark and quiet, for it was spring - and spring meant work. None of the villagers would appreciate being woken in the middle of the night by the clamoring of horses and men when they had to be up before dawn to begin the day. And so he was not the first to greet the sun - but, rather embarrassingly, one of the last.

A few workers hailed him as he strode through the field, but most were too intent on their tasks. The few men left to the village were completing the plowing for most of the fields, and each woman would be planting seeds on her own property. Éomer appreciated this service, for there was simply not enough strength in the women to maintain their families through the man's work, regular housekeeping, and nurturing the children. The situation was the same across the Mark.

Satisfied with the work being done and the service rendered, he continued his trek to find his lady.

He had missed her, during the late winter. But not only her kisses and sweet body - her conscientious words and ready wit. And her kindness in continually forgiving his shortcomings! She was an enjoyable companion, and he hoped to consider her a friend, one of the few that treated him as an equal. He had waited long to seek her company; for propriety and fear of spooking the widowed lady he kept away from Yuldburg at the cost of his happiness. How he had longed for her!

He paused when he saw her, choosing to delay his introduction to drink in the sight of her. She was tilling energetically, hefting the heavy pick above her head and slamming it into the ground to dislodge rocks with the movements of an activity recently learned but obviously practiced. Her hair was coming loose from its braid, and even in her rough woolen dress, she was still so evidently noble and extremely beautiful.

Éomer cried her name, and she turned to look at him mid-thrust, pausing as she recognized him. She let her arms drop, and nodded her head respectfully towards him before shielding her eyes from the golden sunrise as he approached. "I apologize for my state, my lord," she said, out of breath. "Every hand is needed to get the crops planted," she looked at him shrewdly. "If that is indeed why you are come; I am not shirking my commitment to this land."

"I accused you of no such thing," he assured her. "Indeed, the thought did not even cross my mind. I often visit the villages. I enjoy the company of my people and I firmly believe that all should know their king."

She smiled at his words, and he found himself staring at her mouth, immediately berating himself for his greed. He had sworn to himself he would only pursue her if she showed interest. He could not consider their Yule kiss true interest, for she had desired it out of loneliness, not out of any affection for him. He drew a breath, and tried to return his foggy thoughts to their conversation, dragging his gaze away from her lips. Her smile had turned almost feral, and then he knew that she was aware of the direction his thoughts had taken. Blood rushed to his face, but he was pleased to she that she was not without shame, either. Pink flushed through her already sweaty cheeks. Béma, he was long gone!

"I am happy to see you, my lord," Lothíriel said, easily covering her discomposure. "We have had little in the way of outside company during the snows. And truthfully, I am pleased to converse in my own tongue again."

"While my éored is in residence, I would like to offer their services for spring planting," Éomer said, not trusting himself to continue a conversation about her tongue. "We have been lending help across the Mark as often as we are able."

The lady's face brightened more. "We would be very grateful for any help!" she said. "I do trust in the strength of women, but we have been unused to such strain. Men have the luxury of years of farming to gain their skills and fortitude - and this will be one of our first!"

Éomer smiled, suppressing the urge to finger the stray hairs that flitted in her face. The morning light gave the strands a red hue, making her look as if she wore a crown of fire. "We normally arrange for all to rest while we plow," he said, trying to be casual. "Have a holiday of sorts."

Her eyes crinkled at the edges as her smile grew. "I believe that we could surrender the fields to you."

.

.

What he had not told her was of his intention to leave the work to his men and to spend his day in her company. This accounted to her astonishment when he approached her and requested that they speak privately, as the women of the village surrendered their plows and hoes to the soldiers around them.

"Will you not join them?" she asked, indicating the retreating men.

"Certainly not," he said, faking indignation to receive the reward of a snigger from his lady. "There must always be one to stay behind, to confer with the lord or lady of the town to discuss the crops and such. I hope you will not be adverse for losing your day of comfort."

Her eyes strayed across the houses, where there were already windows thrown open and dust was rising from the sweeping. She pursed her lips. "I do not think I will," she said. "I am growing hot in the sun, and being in a stuffy house holds no appeal for me. Dust makes me sneeze."

"Then perhaps you might show me your mushroom groves that you told me about last harvest."

"I would like that," she said before turning thoughtful. "It is quite a journey; I will bring us refreshment, if you consent to a short delay."

"I shall surely."

.

.

Lothíriel had not been exaggerating when she said it was a journey. Though accustomed to long rides and swordfighting, nothing had prepared him for a steep climb through brambles and rocks. The lady set a pace that grew harder to match as his legs began to burn with exertion. At least there were trees overhead - the thought of such exercise in the light of the sun, the only way the trek could be more uncomfortable, kept Éomer's spirits from crumbling. He had grown softer, the last months. As if hearing his thoughts, the lady turned to tell him,

"We are almost there."

He managed a feeble smile before returning his focus to avoiding a misstep as branches snapped under his boots. He adjusted the pack on his shoulder, which he had gallantly volunteered to carry. How was he to know that a single blanket, two wrapped cold meat pies and a few skins of drink would be so heavy? Dew droplets hidden under leaves, clearly unaware that it was already mid-morning, were dripping onto his neck. It was a cooling relief onto his aching muscles, but made him itch.

Lothíriel stopped as they arrived at the edge of a meadow. Later in the year, it would surely be green and lush, but in this the early spring in the high mountains, the grasses were brown and matted from months of heavy snow. "Here is our checkpoint," she informed him. "The mushrooms grow on the north side of this glade, in the woods," she smiled, gazing across the landscape, almost wistfully. "The children would play here after they were finished with their allotments. This is a pleasant place, you will find, but the fungus is not ripe for picking," she cast him a look. "It will be a few weeks before we have a crop. But you wished to see this place."

Her tone almost sounded vexed, and Éomer wondered if she regretted taking him up the mountain now that the exercise had been done. She did not seem winded, and had not shown any reluctance at the onset. "I am thirsty," she announced. "Refreshment is in order, if you are willing." She spread a horsehair blanket in the sun, refusing his offer of help, and set the bag of supplies she had brought on it, setting herself down daintily and tucking her feet under her skirt. "Would you prefer water or wine, my lord?" she asked.

"Water first," Éomer said. "Then wine."

She gave to him a skin, and he drank deeply, turning his face to the breeze to cool the sweat from his face. Bird calls echoed through the trees, and he flicked a beetle from climbing up his trousers. This was a peaceful place, devoid of the rumblings of a town and stink of people living in close quarters. Feeling Lothíriel's presence near to him sunk a deep tranquility into his soul, and caused him to completely disregard his purpose of speaking to her of economic and administrative matters. She had torn up some dead grass and was now tying it together in intricate knots. He watched her fingers move deftly, admiring their grace and surety, and unwilling to break the easy silence between them.

"I am fortunate it is early enough spring that the stalks are still damp," the lady commented, not looking up from her task.

"Indeed," Éomer said, stretching his legs out lazily and resting his weight on his hands behind him. "What else might keep you so busy?"

She looked at him through her dark lashes, her pursed lips betraying her distaste at his comment before she spoke again. "When I spoke of you with my brothers, my lord, they painted a picture of a warrior cold and unbendable man. I am surprised to find that such teasing is not at all beneath you, as it should be."

"You forget, my lady, that I have a sister as well. Before I was a warrior, I was an elder brother, and none else in this world have perfected the art of making fun."

She smiled at that. "I can confirm that notion. It took me many years to finally dissuade my brothers from taking advantage of me."

"How did you succeed?"

"I pretended not to care," she said, placing the woven grass in front of her before folding her hands neatly in her lap. "I did not cry in front of them, I did not become angry and lash out. I acted as though I was the mature one. And so they grew to believe that their antics did not affect me, and they ceased."

"That must have been difficult, my lady. I admire that you succeeded - even I sometimes cannot hold my temper from flaring at Amrothos," Éomer said.

"Amrothos may bring out the worst in all that he holds dear," she said, tone bland. "When we were younger he had a friend that lived at our palace, from Near Harad. He made the mistake of setting rats to nibbling on the boy's holy prayer rug. It was meant to be a joke but got out of hand, and it effectively ended that friendship, as well as the ties between Dol Amroth and the boy's home tribe."

Éomer thought about this for a moment. "Were there many such friendships between your family and the Haradrim?" he asked.

Lothíriel frowned. "A few, and they were terse, now that I think upon it. We wanted to avoid war, but it was always inevitable. The Harad emperor has control over all his lords, and can easily force them to his will. _He_ certainly had no wish for peace, as he was aligned with Sauron for a decade or more."

It came from his mouth before he could stop it, for his curiosity reigned over his sense. "Was your marriage an attempt to circumvent that?"

Her voice turned quiet. "Indeed. Barul was a peace-loving man, but in the end the Emperor still controlled him. He did not want to fight." She was looking intently at the blanket, where she was tugging on a few strands that stuck out.

"Did you love him?"

Her gaze turned to him sharply, attempting to discern his purpose of questioning. Éomer kept strict control over his features so not to show anything other than polite interest. Though this probably was not a proper question to pose to a lady to whom he was unrelated.

But she relented, nonetheless. "I cared for him, but it was not a fervent love. He was kind and attentive, and occasionally there were brief flashes of passion, but Laitka's influence kept our relationship from growing. First wives do have authority by law, and he was rather cowed by her."

"Why did you marry him, if you knew he already had a wife?"

"For Gondor, of course," she looked at him as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Barul suggested it to Father, who was rather against it, but in the end I was allowed to choose. I was only sixteen, and I wanted to see more than the palace walls. Besides, I had a very strong sense of duty, and I did want to do my part in preventing hostilities," At this she clenched her jaw. "But my sense of duty has lessened somewhat. Before I left, my father attempted to arrange a match between myself and the new lord of Lebennon."

This was new to Éomer. "What did you say?" he asked.

"I refused, of course. I believe my father regrets my marrying so young and to a man so distant from my home, and now he seeks to keep me near, in a relationship more pleasing by conventional standards. We had a small row over it," she grinned at him suddenly. "I told him that whether I marry a farmer or a king, the choice will be on me and my conscience alone."

An all too familiar spark of hope fluttered in him. What did she mean, exactly, to suggest marrying a king? He was the only unmarried king he knew of. Was there any meaning at all, or was it just a figure of speech? He had always considered his Westron to be perfectly fluent, but now he doubted himself.

She was still speaking, "After all, other widows are allowed their independence. Mine certainly will not be taken from me because of the duties I have inherited."

"Very wise," he murmured. "Though I imagine that Imrahil would not be entirely pleased to have a farmer as a son-in-law."

"He would have to adjust," Lothíriel said. "Any man I love should be welcomed into my family without qualms. In addition, being a farmer's wife hold more charm to me now than being queen. I cannot comprehend the satisfaction that may come from sitting in a room for all hours of a day and gossiping. It was base enough in a tent!" Several of the words that had occurred in this conversation were making Éomer both dizzy and confused. He tried to ignore it, but his distress did not go unnoticed. She was looking at him, with a wondering expression on her face. "Have I made you uncomfortable?" she asked. "I am afraid I am willing to discuss nearly anything with anyone, it is undoubtedly my biggest fault. I do not mean to make you squirm."

If only she knew why he squirmed! "No harm done," he assured her. It was only a little lie.

She smiled. "Perhaps I blabber more when I myself am uncomfortable. You have a great ability, my lord, to cause me to lose my composure."

"Then you hide it well, for you always seem collected to me," he said.

"I shall put your own composure to the test, and prove to you my outspokenness," she said, and straightened her back, looking him in the eye. He steeled himself for what would come next, for she seemed to be preparing a great announcement. "I am uncomfortable in your presence, my lord, not because I am afraid of you or dislike your character, but because of our actions at Yule. What happened was, of course, entirely on my shoulders as I coerced you into doing my bidding. But it remains entirely inappropriate. I am also ill at ease because I perceive that your thoughts often stray there. It is easy enough to discern, for my thoughts dwell there also."

Outspoken indeed! He could have laughed in relief. "You are not wrong, my lady," he said. "I do not regret what we did, but I worry for any discomfort that may grow between us."

"Then let us mend it," Lothíriel declared. "I shall not let our past interfere with the companionable relationship that we now share. We are friends, and nothing shall destroy it."

Éomer agreed and repeated her words, but not without regret. A long-lasting friendship was not all he wanted from his lady. A home, children, a fulfilling life…

"But perhaps," her voice had grown low, drawing him from his wool-gathering, and a small smile remained on her features. "The best way to ensure such a pact is to seal it."

"You are most correct, my lady," he said, beginning to perceive the direction of her thoughts in her twinkling eyes. "There is always a sealing promise to such treaties."

"I do not want to spill my blood over it," she said.

"Nor I. Nor should any animal be blood-sacrificed for so...insignificant an agreement, at least from the perspective of nations."

"Something small."

"Indeed." He waited for her to say it.

She continued. "Perhaps sentimental?"

"I should think so."

"A handshake…?" She drew out the words. She was not going to break easily!

"No, far too impersonal," he said. "If we are to be friends, a more intimate gesture would be appropriate."

"An oath?"

"Certainly not. Too serious."

She gave him a sly look. "What would you suggest, my lord?"

Éomer grinned, and gave in. "A kiss, my lady, would seal our friendship perfectly."

"Hmm, yes, I agree. I should have …" He did not let her finish, effortlessly catching her lips with his as he bent over her. She responded zealously, tilting her head back to give him better access, which he took full advantage of, tasting her mouth for all he was worth, wanting to remember…

Lothíriel pulled from him, all too soon, and stood, shaking out her skirts nonchalantly. Éomer schooled his feelings as she rose, but he knew his flushed cheeks gave his arousal away. "I am finding it quite hot now that it is past noon, do you feel similarly, my lord?" she asked.

"Yes, I am."

"I will show you a great secret, if you can keep it," she said as she stared at him, still prostrated on the ground.

He raised his eyebrows. "Do I have to make a solemn oath to satisfy you?"

"You may have another kiss to seal this promise," she said, and then drew her next words out slowly. "If...you can keep up with my pace."

He was halfway to his feet as he understood her meaning, but she was already out of the glade, running directly east. Three steps of his own, and he bowled over as his lower leg cramped. Cussing every word he could think of in every language he knew, he pulled himself up laboriously, hunched over like an old woman with pain shooting up his side. But he was not going to yield so easily!

Lothíriel's path was easy enough to follow, though her movements were out of range of his hearing, for the trek was worn with use. It was a short distance of stumbling before he arrived at a mountain stream. He had not even been aware that they was one in these parts, but he forgot his ignorance to see the lady already stripped to her corset and petticoat, and clearly waiting for him.

"The water here is very refreshing!" Without a second glance at him, she climbed up a tall rock, and dove straight into the clear water. He started, for what insane person would seek a swim in a stream freshly melted from snow and ice!

"Are you mad?" he hollered when she surfaced.

But she only laughed. "Join me, my lord, and prove to me your pluckiness!"

There, now his hands were tied. He sighed briefly before undressing himself, leaving only his thin under-leggings to cover his nakedness. He approached the water woefully, grimacing as he stuck a single toe into the icy water. It was a cold as he feared. His lady, having swam a few widths of the stream during his delay, came to him.

"Well?" she asked, looking up at him. Water dripped from her eyelashes, and sparkled in the sun. With the shining water and rosy cheeks from the chill, she was positively radiant. Éomer found it difficult to force words from his mouth.

"Perhaps I am not as plucky as I previously thought," he managed.

A hand shot from the water, and frozen fingers wrapped around his bare ankle. "It is not so bad when your whole body is wet," she said, all innocence. "Come!" A quick tug sent him reeling slightly. He cursed again, and taking a deep breath, did as his lady had bidden him.

He fell in, not as graceful as her entrance, but flailing as he regretted his actions immediately. But she had been right - it was not _as_ cold when he was submerged. His head broke the surface, sputtering water from his mouth, and exclaimed, "Could this not have been done in the summer, woman?!"

She laughed. "Anyone can swim in the summer. It is the brave in heart that swim in winter waters!"

Éomer shook his head, drawing his hair back in a knot. Lothíriel began to swim again, perfectly executed strokes that propelled her efficiently up the stream, and flipping in the water, back towards him. So there were advantages, he thought to himself. Her white undergarments left little enough to his imagination, and he found it difficult to keep his eyes on her face. _Hmmm_.

"Do you race?" she asked, unaware of the course of his thoughts.

"Only on horseback, my lady. I fear you would be the easy winner here, for I have never had the advantage of living by the sea."

"That is unfortunate," she said, floating on her back and closing her eyes in the glare of the sun. "Sometimes I am in need of a proper competition."

"Perhaps we should return," he said. "We have been gone long enough." What he did not admit was that he hated to be wet, or cold, and was ready for a generous amount of wine, or perhaps something stronger.

She sighed. "You are likely to be right."

They walked together back down the mountain, carrying their outer clothes to allow the wet ones to dry. In this easy friendship, Éomer found it simple to hold her hand, and it was only natural for her to kiss him on the cheek when he left her at the door of her cottage, and so it was no surprise he bounded back to his camp with a grin for all whom he passed and skips in his step in all the hope and satisfaction of the perceived return of affection.

.

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_The quotation at the beginning of this chapter is attributed to Plato, with whom I have a love-hate relationship. And again, thank you to my beta, Valkyrie, who is seriously so awesome._


	6. 06: Lift the Wings

_Lift the wings that carry me away from here, fill the sail that breaks the line to home. But when I'm miles and miles apart from you; I'm beside you when I think of you, my darling..._

.

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**July 3020 TA**

_They left before first light._ Éomer had intended to sojourn in Edoras an extra day, but found that the business he had was easily dealt with, and apart from that, he was eager to make his trek to Yuldburg. Éothain accompanied him this time with a half éored, as Elfhelm had made clear his exhaustion of 'chasing a princess through the mountains,' as he had put it. Éomer had been hard pressed to keep his temper, but for the sake of avoiding gossip, gave the marshal a gritty smile and permission to stay behind.

He pushed the pace, and although still feeling the effects of a hard tour through the Westfold, he was impatient to reach their destination. He wondered, as they rode, what Lothíriel would be doing. What would she say? Would she want to kiss him again? And the question that kept him awake during lonely nights...did she return his love? The anxiety of such a notion, whether it be true or not, flipped his stomach. For the first time, he knew that he had found a woman worthy to be a queen. And as further recommendation, she held his heart in her hands, though said hands as often held a hoe or basket of mushrooms. He could appreciate her strength, and begrudged her accomplishments none. Well, perhaps a little.

Rolling plains disappeared under pounding hoofbeats. Adrenaline began to set in, for the sound of galloping horses stirred Éomer's blood like little else could. Nervous excitement ran up his spine. He was clenching the reins in his hands, and he tried to keep them slack else Firefoot become distressed at his master's agitation.

As the curved vale appeared ahead of them, a pair of riders rose from the golden grasses. These riders were running their horses towards them, and it was only a matter of moments before they could be identified. Éomer felt that he could recognize his lady anywhere all.

Lothíriel's form was tall, and she rode astride a dark bay gelding, hair loose in the wind. Her companion was a young woman Éomer recognized from Yuldburg, a flirt that more than one of his soldiers had mentioned in passing. He could not remember her name, but he cared little, for his attention was elsewhere. Specifically, it was heading straight towards him. The ladies pulled in their horses, and as the éored slowed down at Éomer's order, the energetic horses pranced in front of himself and Éothain.

"Hail, Éomer king," the young woman said.

"Hail, my lord," Lothíriel inclined her head slightly, and met his eyes with a mixture of mirth and challenge. What could she possibly be trying to indicate?

"Greetings, Lady Lothíriel," Éomer replied correctly. "I am glad you find you in good spirits," At her expectant look, he cleared his throat. "Ah, this is Éothain, a great friend and member of my éored."

"It is a privilege to finally meet you, my lady," Éothain said, giving her proud form all the respect he could from the back of a horse. "Éomer King has told us much about your hard work in these parts. He did not say that your beauty matched your accomplishments." Éomer saw her lips press in a thin line to keep from grinning, as he felt blood rush to his face. Lothíriel's companion hid a giggle behind her hand.

"I thank you for your compliment," Lothíriel said. "Though I imagine your king does not appreciate your making bare his slight. This is my great friend, Rowyn." She gestured towards the woman. Rowyn had golden curls that bounced around her face, which was illuminated with a lively smile and rosy cheeks, and she responded to their greetings with the enthusiasm of youth.

"We were taking a break from pulling weeds," Lothíriel informed them. "I had the opportunity of purchasing a new horse from a herdsman that comes through Dunharrow in the spring," She patted the bay's neck. "Chaser has an incredible amount of energy, I have to gallop him near every day." In response, the gelding shifted his footing, making clear that he was not yet finished with his exercising.

Rowyn was looking from Éothain to Éomer and then to Lothíriel. A smile spreading, she said, "My Greymane is winded, I think she might prefer a slower pace back home. If you would like to keep going, Lothíriel, I can stay with the éored. Assuming, of course," she shot her king a look. "That you are coming to Yuldburg."

"Indeed, that is our destination," he said.

"I think I will continue, Rowyn," Lothíriel decided. "A turn past Watchbeam Hill and I will be straight behind."

"Firefoot is itching for a run," Éomer said quickly. Firefoot had been chomping lazily on the available grass, and only snorted when his master gave him a nudge. Lothíriel smiled at that, as if she saw through his pretense, which she was likely to. He felt as if he was bared naked in front of her, and she could see straight through any of his attempts to hide his own shortcomings.

"Very well then," she said. "Let us be off."

The first several minutes were spent at too high a speed for conversation. A foursome of guards rode behind them, quickly falling behind, for Chaser was a speedy fellow. Lothíriel had an immaculate taste in horseflesh, Éomer learned. The gelding had smooth, clean lines, and an even pace. Though Firefoot would undoubtedly win over a large distance, the stallion was having trouble keeping up. Éomer did not mind, for he could watch the lady's form from behind, which he enjoyed very much. Finally she began to slow her pace, and Éomer caught up with her.

"Rowyn is a dear, but she has certain ideas of my status," the lady said without preamble. "She seems to believe that I should ride with kings, not farmers. That is why she was so intent on you and I together."

"She cannot be too convinced," he replied. "For she retains her friendship with you, and I wager that she is a farmer's daughter. Unless Yuldburg has other occupations to offer."

Lothíriel laughed. "I always appreciate an unbiased view. Though I do have a grievance to take up with you."

"And what is that?"

"You did not tell Éothain that I was beautiful!"

He snorted at her expression of faux indignance. "In all honesty, my lady, I did not take you to be a woman of vanity. I was unaware that I would have to reassure you of your attributes."

"All women are vain," she corrected, and then shot him a conspiring look. "And to spare you future trouble, I shall tell you a secret of my sex. It does not matter from whom the compliment comes, or in what context, but all women want to hear that they are beautiful. It is especially to be gratified to hear such from the king," she grinned. "But since the king does not say so, I shall make do with his friend, and lose an ounce of esteem for my own looks."

"Then you have my sincerest apologies, for I have seen few women who may match you for beauty, and near none for strength of will," Éomer said this with all honesty, but tried to keep his feelings from becoming transparent. "I give you nothing but the truth. I fear Éothain was teasing me, for sometimes I struggle to speak of anything besides you, Lothíriel."

A brief expression of discomfort and surprise flashed on her face. He wondered if he should have refrained from using her name, for she had never invited him to do so. "That is compliment indeed," she mused, half to herself. "So thorough that I may doubt the validity."

"I would not -"

"Peace!" She held up a hand, and he realized she was laughing. "I have tormented you enough, and I apologize for it. I should not antagonize you so. It is terribly easy, and so I partake when I should refrain."

The guards were catching up now, and Éomer clenched his jaw in annoyance. He wanted to speak to her of his feelings, of his love and his desire, but this was apparently not the right time. What relief it would bring! And in her response he would find joy in reciprocity, or a cold finality in rejection. Even then he would be able to recover his own usefulness, for though it was never spoken of in his presence, he knew his riders, marshals, and housekeeper alike agreed on his moon-eyed behavior. A queen would be fine recompense for the last months of heartache, but this lady's love was not guaranteed, nor would it come swiftly, if it was to come at all. He felt damned for it.

They trotted around the hill, and on the return journey towards the vale, Éomer broke the silence. "How fare things in Yuldburg?" he asked.

A shadow passed the lady's face. "Well enough," she said. "The crops are growing nicely, and we are still reaping from the mountains, albeit little at a time."

"And what is the problem?"

"I said nothing of a problem, my lord."

Éomer could not help grinning at her confusion. "You do not hide your emotions well."

This earned him a small smile, before she said, "About a month ago a small boy drowned in the stream wherefrom we take our water. His mother has been grief-stricken and her field has gone to waste. The rest of us try to rotate through her chores, but we cannot afford to coddle her for much longer. I heard a complaint this morning from another mother whose babe died in her arms a year ago, that the woman should not be allowed to shirk her work. It is a difficult situation, but I am obliged to tell the mother that she must return to her fields when we return," she sat straighter in her saddle. "That is partially why I am riding. It clears my mind and makes me a better judge."

"Then you certainly should not feel guilty for it."

She cast him an amused glance. "I am gratified you think so. I do appreciate your concern for that facet of my conceit."

"Is there anything myself or the members of my éored can do to help with any farming or other chores?" he asked.

"We are doing quite well, but thank you," she said. "I cannot think your men enjoy such work in every village wherein they patrol."

"We all do what we must."

Yuldburg began to appear as they left the plains, mountains closing in behind and beside them. They slowed to a walk, and various individuals began hailing them from their farms. Lothíriel called everyone by name, expressing delight as they assured her of their well-being. Éomer could do nothing but nod, for he was not so familiar with these his lady's people, and he regretted it. The obvious affection they had for their mistress was enviable. Most of Edoras liked him well enough, but as king and an amateur one at that, he was far more susceptible to criticism. The militarism of his past had given him no experience with being questioned.

"Would you care to join me for dinner?" Lothíriel asked, breaking him from his dour contemplation. They had arrived at the dirt road that separated the houses. "That is, I often eat with Widow Halfa. I have little talent for preparing meals, and so we pool our resources and she cooks for me. She would not mind one extra guest, though the rest of your company may not fit around her table."

Éomer smiled as he stared into her twinkling slate eyes. He knew he was smitten, but the awareness of her overwhelmed his senses. "Er, yes. I would like that very much. My men will be happy eating the provisions from Meduseld. Though," he felt mischievous as he told her this. "A few have found ladies to woo in your little town. They will be welcome in those homes, I am sure."

She laughed then, an open and unabashed sound, and was content to joke cheerily with his guards as they unsaddled their horses and groomed them briefly. There was a small enclosure at the western-most corner of the twin rows of houses, and there the horses were led to graze in the corral. "Widow Halfa lives in the cottage next to mine," Lothíriel told him as they walked towards her dwelling. "I shall tell her of your expected company, then I must finish weeding my garden before I speak to the mother of whom I told you. Why don't you take your time to assess our economy, as I am sure you are supposed to."

A twine of guilt pricked his heart, even in the sight of her gleaming eyes. He could send any of his marshals to Yuldburg to take care of necessary business, but Imrahil's beseeching plea had drawn him here in the beginning. He now returned for the lady's smiling lips, but he could not very well tell her that without begging to marry her. Agreeing to do as she suggested, he prepared himself to do without her company for the following hours.

.

.

Widow Halfa was a formidable woman. Éomer had always found Lothíriel imperious by his standards, but this older woman was in a class of her own. Within seconds of his entrance into her neat home, his muddy boots were removed and his hands and face washed, all while she told him exactly how she had had guests in the past that had dirtied her home more than her children ever had. But he knew how to take a hint, and stood without moving while she finished preparing the vegetables, his arms folded across his chest and trying not to breathe too loudly.

Lothíriel entered soon after him with the suddenness of thunder though none of the fright, shutting the door behind her none too gently. She was obviously quite familiar with the rules of the house, and was properly cleaned by the time she kissed the Widow in the cheek, sent Éomer a teasing glance, and began to set the table of dining ware. She was wearing a clean dress the color of dark blue, a color that would always remind him of her. He did not notice that he was staring until the Widow addressed him.

"King you may be, but entitled to laziness you are not. Put this on the table," she barked at him. Éomer opened his arms automatically to have them filled with a platter of mushrooms and and bowl of what looked like carrot greens. He moved to his lady's side to set them on the table, trying not to disturb the pristine rug. Lothíriel took the mushrooms from him, which improved his balance briefly until their hips touched. Béma! He needed to be more careful. The greens had almost spilled onto the floor in his hyper-awareness of the tingles the lady sent through him. And that surely would have been a disaster. He gulped, trying not to inhale her scent too much.

The Widow brought a skillet of roasted rabbit to the table and ordered them to sit. After seeing that all were served food and water (wine being in short supply, as she told him), she turned to Éomer. "Many things baffle me in my old age, King, but none more than your frequent presence in my little hamlet. Théoden certainly never graced us with his presence. Why do you?"

He nearly choked on a bit of meat. Lothíriel intervened, giving him time to clear his throat. "Halfa considers Yuldburg to be hers," she explained. "For she has lived longer here than everybody. She has seen nearly all the residents born."

"I see," he said. "And I apologize for lack of courtesy to you, Widow Halfa. I have not the time to meet with all of the village's most experienced leaders." He saw Lothíriel cover her smile behind a napkin, but the Widow smiled graciously at his compliment. "And in defense of my unusual behavior, I do try to oversee the most desolate towns either myself or assign such tasks to my marshals. That way we can better ration resources and manpower."

"You have a good head on your shoulders. But I see fit to warn you," she poked a fork in his direction. "You should not dally chasing princesses through the woods!"

Lothíriel blushed a pretty pink, and Éomer felt the blood rush to his own face. "You must forgive me," he said. "This one is too easy on the eyes by half, and she seems to find the time to inform me of all the local affairs." He winked at his lady, and she smiled. Didn't compliment her enough, indeed!

The Widow was laughing loudly. "Lot is very good at what she does, that cannot be debated. If she can pull herself from your arms enough to show you just that, I suppose I can trust you to wrap your head around our affairs. Experience aside, a king should never dally."

"Madam, I assure you that I have never dallied!" Éomer said. His pride was catching up with him, for he hated to be accused of such paltriness. He struggled to loosen his grip on his knife.

"Never?" This from Lothíriel, who leaned across the table slightly to study him closely.

"I swear it," he said. "For I find that such trysts belittle sacred relationships to a high degree." His lady's gaze dropped quickly, as if ashamed. Could a lady so proud feel such a sentiment?

"What does the king have to say about the affairs of the rest of the Mark?" The Widow was asking. Éomer covered his discomfort and that of his lady's with an overly enthusiastic description of the progress of repairs made throughout the Mark. And on that subject he was fortunately able to keep the women occupied, as they spent the remainder of the evening making comments and sharing opinions of what he should do. He had to laugh to himself though, for the outspokenness they exhibited was absent in his council chamber in Edoras. They also spoke briefly of Lothíriel's audience with the woman in the afternoon, and of the potential amount of crops expected in the autumn.

The sun has sunk long past by the time Éomer found himself escorting Lothíriel to her door, at the Widow's insistence and despite the princess's protests. They walked slowly, having been filled to great satisfaction with a blackberry and custard tart, which Halfa had proudly declared to be her specialty and made particularly for her king.

"You have learned Rohirric very well," he told her to fill the silence.

She smiled at him. "Complete immersion is the best way of learning any skill."

"It is obvious you care deeply for the people. They thrive, and I am very well pleased. You have eased my burden in Edoras, to be sure."

Lothíriel was quiet for a moment before responding. "Yes," she said. "We have all worked hard."

"But you especially, no?"

She looked at him suspiciously. "I cannot comprehend why, but you seem to be wanting me to say something. What is it?"

He shrugged. "You must be imagining things."

"I have worked hard, and perhaps more diligently in organizing matters than others, but that comes with the station of my office. That is all, my lord."

Éomer wondered why she did not use his name. Did she still hold him in high formal regard? Too high for any romantic sentiments?

"My lord," she said suddenly. Her eyes were focused in the distance, as if her thoughts had deserted their conversation. "Do you draw?"

He growled as his temper rose faster than a deadly missile loosed from a longbow. "I will tan the backsides of those soldiers! I swear, it is bad enough that they are inclined to snoop, but the fact that they cannot hold to a direct order from their king -"

She was looking mightily bewildered as she held up her hands and said, "Peace! I did not realize that this particular question would affront you so. You have my apology."

His temper eased as quickly as it had risen. "You do not need to give it, but please accept mine," Éomer said, his heated color betraying his embarrassment. He should not have concluded her intentions so quickly. His damned anger! "I do draw - to answer your inquiry, but only privately. I was unlucky on a recent tour that one of my men came upon me in such a pursuit. I have yet to live it down, though I have sworn them all to secrecy."

She was laughing. "Such irony of inquiry! And I hardly believe that artistic talent is something to be frowned upon. Men are unfathomable creatures! I only ask because I wish to spend my free hours stitching. I have not the capability to stitch something pleasing without a pattern, and I cannot draw worth a fig. I would ask for a template of designs is all."

"Then you shall have it," Éomer bowed. "Perhaps tomorrow morning? We can delay our departure by an hour or two if it pleases you."

"Then I shall see you at dawn, my lord king," Lothíriel curtseyed in return, a grandiose and exaggerated gesture, and by her smirk he knew she was teasing him. But she acceded to having him kiss her hand, and with the promise of tomorrow, she entered her cottage and he left to seek his own sleep, whether it came or not.

.

.

He had already prepared a satchel with parchment and charcoal sticks when Lothíriel arrived at the camp just as the sun was rising. She had been eating a handful of strawberries as she walked, and threw the last of the stems over her shoulder unconsciously. As she got closer, Éomer was delighted to see her tongue licking up the red juice staining her lips. He had not yet breakfasted, but now he knew what he was craving.

"Shall we?" he asked, with his satchel on one shoulder and offering the opposite arm to her. They walked in all the comforts of a steady friendship, and she directed him towards their primary source of water, a chill and respectable sized stream about a quarter-mile from the village. He sat on a mossy log and pulled out some supplies while the lady roamed along the bank before returning with handfuls of blossoms.

"I would like each to be about the size of a gold coin," she said. "For I will only be stitching small items, for now."

"As you wish," Éomer said. He had little interest in flowers, but one by one he spread the petals on his parchment to copy. He found solace in drawing; ever since he was a little boy it had been one of his greatest pleasures. But as he had become a hardened marshal, he was pressed to enjoy his hobby in small, rushed doses while worrying of being snuck upon by judgmental acquaintances or Dunlendings. And so he was out of practice, but Lothíriel's compliments even of half-finished drawings pleased him greatly. "For your use," he said when he was finished, and the last of the blossoms had been brushed unceremoniously to the ground. "Though for my sweat and expounded effort -" he mocked wiping his brow. "I ask for a favor by the lady's hand in return."

She smiled as she ruffled through the pages once more, murmuring over her favorites. "I am in your debt, my lord," she said. "I would prepare a hundred favors for you, if they could begin to repay the kindness you have shown me. Indeed, for the attention that you have always bestowed upon me," Her eyes were guileless, and the expression in them made his heart pound. "But I should keep you from your seat no longer. I will leave you here, for I wish to take a short hike in the forest before I am required to spend the rest of my day in less...exhilarating pursuits."

Éomer caught her hand in his as she was turning to leave, and he raised it to his lips. "Until next we meet, Lothíriel."

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_Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen._


	7. 07: The Heart's Cry

_There is a moment when I look at you, and no speech is left in me. My tongue breaks, then fire races under my skin, and I tremble and grow pale, for I am dying of such love - or so it seems to me._

_._

_._

**October-December 3020 TA**

_Éomer had been pacing his study for days_. The agony of his feelings, the desire for Lothriel, and the indecision of what to do plagued his thoughts day and night, making him positively useless. He had noticed - though he pretended he did not - that his brief answers and sullen manners caused his counsellors to begin asking him fewer questions. The satisfaction that came from from rebuilding the country that he loved was undermined by the constant thoughts of his lady. He had never been so besotted before, and now he sympathized the men he had known as a youth. One had even given up drinking spirits at the request of his betrothed, and Éomer had not understood then. But he understood now.

Worst of all was the hope. He had known his lady now for over a year, and with each of their encounters, his love grew, and her treatment of him became warmer. He wondered again, as he had for so long: could she love him? She acted as though she might, and he knew her not to be shallow enough to trifle. The trilling songs of possibilities were woven into his soul, refusing to give up the hope. Damn. He had to do something.

In the first snowflakes of winter, he rode from Edoras with a few men. The journey seemed to last an age, but when he dismounted outside of Lothíriel's cottage as night began to fall, he did not remember a single minute of it. He felt as if he were walking through a memory of a dream, so removed he was from his surroundings. A winny sounded to his left as he walked up the short path, and he started to see Chaser inspecting him from where the gelding had been munching on dandelions. "I am no threat," Eomer assured the horse, who did not appear convinced, only continuing to eye him with suspicion. "I am not here to harm your mistress." He knocked on the heavy door, swallowing nervously. He did not know what to expect.

"Enter." Her voice carried to him with the hope of birdsong in the spring, and steeling himself, he opened the door. She was sitting by the hearth, a pile of fabric in her lap which she was obvious stitching. She did not seem taken aback by his presence. "Welcome, my lord," she said, nodding her head. "You honor me with your presence." Her face looked drawn, as if she had not been getting enough sleep, and the easy smile he was accustomed to was absent.

"May I sit?" he asked, feeling awkward and unsure of what else to say. She waved him to a chair sitting opposite her, and he sat. She returned her attention to her work, unspeaking. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, his discomfort increasing. The cracks of the fire echoed in the room and sounded like thunder in the silence, and to distract himself, he looked around. She had decorated with a few personal items she must have brought with her, and dried flowers native to this area. There were a few books on the mantle, but in the dim light he found it difficult to read the titles.

"Would you like a cup of cider? I am afraid it is all I have to offer." She did not look up from her stitching.

"I would, thank you," he said. While she was in the kitchen, which was set apart from the big room, he took to pacing, for his legs felt slightly wobbly. There was not much to look at that he had not already seen. But there was a small table, presumably for eating, though covered with letters and spare writing materials. Curious, Éomer pushed aside an envelope addressed to the lady by a familiar hand and discovered that Imrahil had been in correspondence with his daughter. He jumped to hear Lothíriel step onto the landing, and feared his blush might give him away.

But she was not looking at him as they sat again by the fire. She had not taken up her stitching again, though now the flames seemed to be the most interesting thing to her. For the first time in her presence, Éomer felt completely lost. He knew her to be polite at the worst of times, and friendly and cheerful at the best. What was this dour silence?

"The cider is delicious, did you brew it yourself?" he asked, the words deadened as they were captured by the wooden walls and held there.

"I helped only. It is from Widow Halfa's batch."

"Ah." Well, that had not been a prolific subject. She certainly was not inclined to return any conversation. Oh, why had he come! He could have easily (well, _more_ easily) have penned his sentiments in a letter. At least then he would not have been confronted by this cold demeanor.

"My father has written to me," she said suddenly, still fixated in the fire.

"Oh?" he returned.

A few more moments, and she seemed to gather courage before she finally looked at him, her grey eyes seeming to build an impenetrable defense. "I was unaware of the agreement between you and him," she said.

"What agreement?"

It was obviously the wrong thing to say. Her gaze turned sharp and angry. "Please do not play ignorant with me, my lord, I do not wish to skirt around the issue! I should think that since you have misled me thus far you might have manners enough to give me honesty now." Her words hit him like a horse-kick to the gut, and before he could speak she stood and retrieved the letter he had seen, clearing her throat to recite as she returned to her seat. Her voice was slightly mocking."'_Dear Daughter, I hope you are well. I assume that my sworn-son has been looking after you sufficiently as I made him to promise, and so I do not worry for your health. I am sure there is a room for you in Meduseld if common life becomes too harrowing. You must be most kind to him for suggesting the position you now carry, he is a great friend to me and will keep you safe.'_" Lothíriel stopped reading, crumpling the paper slightly in her strong grip. "The letter continues, but it is not relevant. Please, my lord, favor me with the truth: is my father's interference the sole reason for your supposed friendship to me?"

Éomer was momentarily dazed. And he had thought Imrahil to be more discreet! He only vaguely remembered their conversation all those months ago. "Nay, it is not," he said. "I brought you to the Riddermark at your own insistence and your father's good will after I swore to him I would see you safe. I could have sent any of my marshals that may act in my name to oversee your health these months, but seeing how quickly I fell in love with you, that would have only been a detriment to my own happiness."

A myriad of emotions was present in Lothíriel's face. Anger, betrayal, desperation, and dare he think - tenderness? No, he could not presume."Is that what you declare?" she asked. "I suppose your extended story would be you _only _come to Yuldburg because of your regard for me? That we would not have the help of your men if _I_ had not held your heart? A very lovely story, to be sure, but I will not be fooled."

Éomer felt his temper rising. He never lied, and did not appreciate being called a deceiver, whether it was by the woman of his heart or not. And he could forgive her for many other things. "Those are rich sentiments from you," he said in a cutting tone. "I was certainly not the one to initiate what transpired between us last Yule."

"A mistake," she said in a low voice. "I know my weaknesses, and I did not act rationally that night. I only -" She pressed her lips together, stopping her words, as if suddenly changing her mind about continuing that thought.

"The past is the past, and I have little care as to what brought me here at the beginning," Éomer said, trying to sound calm despite his riotous feelings. "But I come now to ask you to be my wife. I have longed for you. I crave you every minute as I would miss a limb from my very body. I admit I have never loved before this, but I am not so blind to the symptoms!" He laughed bitterly, rubbing his forehead with one hand and looking away so that he might not read any expression on her face. "I once desired many things, but now I desire only you. To come to know your mystery and to prove my devotion every day," His voice was growing louder in heightened emotion. "You will never be removed from my heart, even if your only words to me will be a denial. I have chosen you to be the companion of my life, keeper of my hearth, and queen of my land, but now the matter rests in your hands." He gently removed her cup from its death-grip in her hands and clasped them within his own, surprised to feel them trembling. "Your beautiful hands...Lothíriel. My dearest love."

Her eyebrows were furrowed. She looked to be contemplating a great many things, and did not speak for a few minutes, though they were an eternity for Éomer. "It seems rather silly to ask for my hand to clear up a surmised misunderstanding," she said at last. "I am not so easily bought."

"I am not trying to purchase you to save your reputation or to hold you under my command!" he said. "I am trying to tell you that I love you, that I have loved you, and will continue to love you until the world passes away into darkness. I don't give a horse's ass about your father's intentions for either of us! _You_ matter to me, and you alone."

Lothíriel smiled slightly, but it was aggrieved. "Were I of a more susceptible nature, I would swoon over such a speech. But I cannot, for I have no desire of matrimony at the present."

How could she be so harrowing! Even a lesser woman would thank him and deny him politely, instead of hurting him further. But he could not give up. But the hope had lived within him for too long already. "Tell me one thing," he said, leaning in close to capture her gaze in his. "Have you regard for me of any nature?"

She frowned. "Certainly. I have considered you a great friend to me since your invitation for me to live in your land. Though of late I have questioned your sentiments for me."

"Do not question them! Let your heart be at ease - my feelings are true."

Her frown deepened, and she pulled her hands away from his and sat back in her chair, studying him with a troubled expression. His fingers felt empty for the loss of her touch. She belonged with him, that he knew in the deepest part of his soul that was reserved only for absolute truth. Even doubting her returned affections he had never questioned the rightness of their unity. He knew as he had known little else before. Though that would be cold comfort if she never desired him in return. He waited for her verdict.

"I cannot marry you," she finally said. He let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

"Would you explain to me why?"

"I cannot marry you because I have duties here, and I do not wish to leave my people while there is still so much work to do. I will not marry you because I distaste the situation between you and my father as it relates to me. I must be frank with you: I do not anger easily, but a congeniality with me is nearly impossible to restore once broken. I honestly believed that your friendship with me was born from true feeling, not as an obligation. It shakes my very core to be so used."

"But I told you -"

She waved him away. "Were you not of such an honest nature as mine, I would not have believed your explanation. But you must give me time to consider this, and to come to forgiveness."

"Is there any chance at all of you consenting to be my wife?"

"There is a third consideration that I have not shared," Lothíriel said, her chin jutting forward. "For perhaps the most potent reason for my denial is that I do not wish to be your wife. I have freedom in my life here and I would have none as queen."

Éomer leaned back in his seat, trying not to let his emotion show. "Very well," he said. "It will be as you wish."

For a moment he thought she might retract her words, for visible on her face was something akin to regret. He would not believe it though - he could not lead himself on any longer. But she did not respond to the subject any longer. "I do have a gift for you," she said, obviously concealing her own feelings and attempting normality, same as him. "It is gratitude for the sketches you gave to me, as I promised." She bent down and rummaged through a basket near her chair, pulled from it a neatly folded square of fabric. Éomer took it from her and put it in his front pocket, not wanting to heighten his feelings for her by examining an item made by her hand. He really had not thought her so unfeeling towards him!

"I thank you," he said. "And I will leave you now, for there is little else to say between us."

Lothíriel only nodded. "I pray that you may stay safe, wherever you go."

He stood and held out his hand. She placed hers in it willingly, and he bowed low, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles before kissing it. How soon would he forget the smell and feel of her skin? He did not want to - for this parting seemed near permanent, not a simple respite from each other's company. "Farewell, Lady Lothíriel."

"My lord."

Still dazed, he stepped from her cottage and walked into the night, alone in his thoughts and wishing to have none at all.

.

.

The ride back to Edoras was completely opposite from the one to Yuldburg. Éomer would remember every minute of it, every emotion that passed through him, and every thought that surfaced in his mind. He became worked up with anger, and acted in irritation towards his men. He knew they should not suffer as he did, for they did nothing wrong, but his temper that he had strived so hard to be unwavering now became volatile. His torment was unmitigated - why should he try to rein in the violent feelings that coursed in him? He could not ignore them, after all, being overwhelmed with despair in both spirit and mind. Could he blame Lothíriel? Truly, he could not. For despite his rage, he still loved her. She had not been unkind, not really. She had only given him the answer that _he_ did not want.

And so his days continued in darkness. Foul moods, half-hearted attempts to spare those around him from falling into the deep pit of despair with him. He asked himself over and over what he could have done differently. Said differently. Felt differently. The only conclusion that came to him during those weeks was that he acted from his heart, though his head had tried to circumvent the impulsiveness that had betrayed him. He should have waited until he was sure of her feelings.

The letter that began to draw him from his wretchedness arrived on a wet, blustery and cold day about three weeks from Yuletide. Elessar needed help to purge Cirith Ungol! The rats of Mordor had been multiplying secretly during the past several months, and their activity had only been discovered three days before the letter was dispatched to Éomer. He breathed with relief when he read the words - for this was what he wanted: a distraction, a mission to take him far away from this hell. Despite only housing his lady love once, his home haunted him and reminded him of _her_, and of everything they had done together. One especially distressing incident had involved him refusing supper, loudly and publicly, after he saw that mushrooms were on the plate. The memories, small and few as they were, were weighing his mind, and of course did not improve his spirits.

Éomer felt little regret for tearing three full éoreds from their families for the long holiday. He was despondent, after all - and their enjoyment would only worsen it. He knew he was being unreasonable, but was unwilling or unable to overcome it. He did not care for any introspection to determine which.

He drove his troops hard, aiming to arrive at Minas Tirith to meet together with Aragorn's men before the march to Mordor. Even so, constant movement kept him from succumbing to the numbness the snow began to drive at him. A suspension of emotion would have been more welcome, for his heartache did not end at the border, despite his best attempts. With only gruel, oats and dried goat meat to eat and riding hard from before dawn to after dusk, there should have been a retreat into the basics of human need. But more than comfortable lodgings he still yearned for _her_.

"My friend!" Aragorn had been awaiting their company in the seventh circle of the city, where soldiers from Minas Tirith were quartered and awaiting the rest of the troops. The Rohirrim riders had already begun seeking out old friends and housing their horses from the bitter cold. All the sooner to seek out the hot food that seemed to bludgeon the senses, which Éomer had been contemplated indulging in when Aragorn found him instead. He was pleased to see his friend even in the activity of war around them, and tried to appear solicitous.

"I am surprised your new wife allowed you on this mission," he told him, as they clasped each other in an embrace.

"Allowed! Hah!" Aragorn said. "She is not pleased, of course, but she understands duty. Our compensation is that she is lodging with me in my tented quarters until we ride from the city."

"And when will that be?"

"Dawn after next."

The sun was already sinking in the sky. Éomer relented the reins of Firefoot to Féola. His squire had been hovering nearby, clearly eager to be useful in a crowd of such heroes. "Have you summoned Faramir and his men as well?" he asked as they began walking.

"I have not - his speciality is on the side of range and stealth, neither of which will be very helpful in the terrain around Cirith Ungol, according to the reports I have been receiving. Though a small legion of rangers waits at Osgiliath for my orders."

Éowyn and Faramir and been married February past, in too deep of winter for Éomer to make the trek to Gondor for the celebrations. He had been in regular correspondence with his sister, though he really should have visited, especially apart from duties. But he had been loath to take time away from his kingly responsibilities, pathetic as his idleness had been. It was easier to lose himself now in Aragorn's company, for the required attention his friend was commanded as they discussed their vocations. Advice was shared and reciprocated, and strategies drawn for the upcoming attack.

Éomer almost felt like his true self again as they travelled to Cirith Ungol, despite the evilness that was growing. A part of the journey followed the same direction as the road to the Black Gate, and bloody nightmares began to plague nearly all in the camp. Tensions were high. As for himself, well, Éomer found that in his darkest moments, if he softened his heart for that time alone, memories of _her _and the love he had for her and the precious warmth they had shared for so short a time succeeded in comforting him. No doubt he was seen as a loony, for he arose smiling at the dawn, while others were exhausted from sleeplessness, their throats raw from half-strangled cries in the night. The beeswax Éomer stuffed in his ears while he slept helped as well.

They were met at the entrance of the Morgul Vale by a regiment in the colors of Dol Amroth. Éomer did not react well to the sight, for they reminded him of _her_, but he disguised his disquiet in sullen silence. Well, maybe he did not disguise it very well. Fortunately he was not approached by any that he might know from that city, and Éothain chatted beside him on mundane matters that took little effort to respond to.

The dark shadows of Mordor had considerably lessened since the battle at the Black Gate, but the atmosphere still thickened and pressed upon them with a terrible weight. To chase despair away, Aragorn arranged for music and entertainment that very night. The few instruments that had been packed along, were brought out, and a program of songs was made. Éomer did not participate, for once in a while a Swanship caught his view and caused his stomach to sink as would a bag of stones, when he might otherwise be distracted. He ate supper in silence, but in his defense, he did try to be cheered by one of his favorite Rohirric tunes, which was sung by the Riders in stirring deep tones and accompanied by makeshift drumming.

_Open the door for the tailoring fiddler,_

_Open the door for the fiddling tailor,_

_Open the door for the tailoring fiddler,_

_The king's son is the fiddling tailor!_

Aragorn had approached him in the inaudible footfalls he always seemed to have, sitting down and beginning to eat his own meal in silence before speaking. "You are not yourself, Éomer. You are welcome to confide in me, if you need it."

He had not been sure until now if he would be comfortable sharing his heartache with his friend, but the words came naturally and unbidden. "I have fallen in love with a woman, who is beauteous, hard-working, and fit to be queen. But she denied me when I asked for her hand."

"Ah."

_Faithful I am to him, kinsman I am to him,_

_Faithful am I to the tailoring fiddler,_

_Faithful I am to him, kinsman I am to him,_

_The king's son is the fiddling tailor!_

He pushed some meat and rice around his bowl with a finger. So far he was not feeling any better. "What has made me unhappy is that she showed interest in me as a man, but a singular piece of information from the past has turned her against me. She will not have me because of this, but not, I think, because she dislikes me. My heart now is the heaviest burden I have ever borne."

_Open the door for the tailoring fiddler,_

_Open the door for the fiddling tailor,_

_Open the door for the tailoring fiddler,_

_The king's son is the fiddling tailor!_

Aragorn was silent for a moment, finishing his meal before speaking. "There is little cure for the agony of unreciprocated love."

Éomer gave a bitter laugh. "I have tried many things. None of them have worked." The Rohirrim broke off into singing nonsense words to the same rhythmic tune. Most of the camp were now clapping their hands or thighs, or banging with their eating ware. He decided that the quiet support of his friend _was_ helping. Though no particular insight was to be had, his spirits had lifted slightly. He opened his mouth again to speak, but was interrupted by a Swan knight familiar from his mane of black hair and eyes the color of storm clouds, all the way to his newly shined shoes, and who appeared in front of them with a wide grin on his face.

"Greetings, my lords!"

.

.

_Poem by Sappho. The song at the end is a traditional Irish song called "Oscail an Doras", edited slightly for my own purposes._


End file.
